


12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me

by naimu



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimu/pseuds/naimu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 christmas’ of Arthur and Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING:::: CHEDDAR AND SAP AHEAD! 
> 
>  
> 
> MILLION THANKS to mergana and rah_rah_ramen also a big thanks to my friend on tumblr, paperfacesonparade who all helped me by betaing on such late notice. thank you! also a big thanks to scribjerky who made the BEAUTIFUL fanmix cover! thank you!
> 
> this was for the secret santa exchange on LJ 2010.
> 
> This is for the lovely Cherry_road, who said she loved music and domestic stuff, I tried to fuse the two together but I am not so sure how well I did, but I hope you enjoy this! Thank you!

  
  
  
  


## 12 songs of Christmas my true love gave to me

  
  
  
  
  
  


### The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

  
  
How'd you like to be a spotted elephant?  
Or a choo-choo with square wheels on your caboose!  
Or a water pistol that shoots... jelly?  
We are all misfits!  
  
2000  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur had grown up poor, something Eames had noticed and been quick to point out when they first met. (Needless to say that from then on, Arthur vowed to forever despise Eames.) But yes. Arthur grew up poor—every month was a battle of making ends meet. Arthur never really celebrated Christmas, mostly because he was Jewish; but the fact was that his parents never had enough money to celebrate even the Jewish holidays.  
  
So Arthur grew up with a habit of ignoring holidays (even though now, he was wealthy enough to celebrate any to all holidays)—he didn’t find the need to celebrate Christmas, or Hanukah. The idea of gift giving was a bit lost on him. So when February came around and Arthur came back from a long job in Berlin to his studio loft in LA, he was surprised to find a package waiting for him. Arthur really didn’t know how to take the surprise.  
  
He grabbed the parcel and studied it.  
  
The package wasn’t big—no bigger than a child’s shoebox. It was wrapped in a brown paper bag and a straw string, a card stuck between. Arthur took the card and opened it slowly.  
  
The card was a 5 x 8 heavy stock paper with a hand drawn picture of what looked like Central Park’s ice skating rink. Arthur flipped the card around to find familiar handwriting.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“To my favorite stick in the mud, Arthur.  
We only met last year around this time and I worked with you twice, but I thought it’d be lovely of me to drop this gift while I was in town on a job!  
  
Enjoy it, for he is precious!  
  
\- Mr. Eames!  
  
P.S.: Yes, you should call me Mr. Eames—I still don’t believe you’re old enough to drink. Grow a ‘stache, see how that works out for you.  
  
P.P.S.: Christmas was always one of my favorite days of the year, but now I find myself excited to give you ridiculous gifts as a token of my appreciation! ‘Till our next anniversary!”_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes in irritation, placed the parcel and the card down on his kitchen table, and headed towards his bedroom where he neatly stripped and took a steamy hot shower. He dried and dressed in comfortable lounging clothes and headed towards the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Syrah and pouring himself a healthy amount in his glass. As he exited his kitchen, the package caught his eyes. Arthur stood in his kitchen staring at the package, contemplating if he should open it or not, and then decided, ‘why not?’ He went over and set his bottle and glass on the table and started to pull on the straw stings. After ripping the brown paper, Arthur found himself opening a small box, revealing a stuffed red elephant with green polka-dots. The color scheme made his eyes hurt.  
  
Arthur grabbed the card again and re-read carefully.  
  
“He’s precious my ass. . .” Arthur muttered as he stuffed the elephant back into the box, leaving it on his kitchen table. The con man proceeded to grab his wine and trudge back into his bedroom where he finished half a bottle and promptly fell asleep.  
  
If Arthur took the card and posted it on his fridge, it wasn’t for any sentimental reasons or anything—he just professionally and genuinely admired Eames’s drawing of Central Park. And if Arthur took the stuffed elephant and placed it carefully in his closet by his favorite pairs of shoes, then he did so because that was the only place in his closet where there was room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### Holly Jolly Christmas

  
  
Have a holly jolly Christmas  
And in case you didn't hear  
Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas  
This year  
  
2001  
  
  
Arthur was not a full time con man. Arthur, on paper, was an art dealer/critic for the Institute of Fine Arts Los Angeles and also part time curater for The Getty. In his spare time (on paper) he liked to travel and enjoy fine dinning. In reality, Arthur is traveling around the world, taking on extraction jobs, all for the sole reason of building. Arthur was introduced to dream-sharing during his last year in college, while taking an extra course in Italian Renaissance Architecture. There was a guest speaker on the physical possibilities, and by the end of the week he was introduced to dream-architecture and completely hooked on dream-sharing. By the end of that year he was helping extractors build in dreams.  
  
The addiction Arthur found in building in dreams was probably brought on by the fact that he didn’t have the ability to create in real life. He couldn’t paint or draw or sculpt; he tried very hard through out all of high school and college, but he just did not possess the gift of art—so the whole building within a dream for Arthur was like . . . well, a dream come true. Arthur, however, was a fairly good guitarist and enjoyed playing whenever he was bored and needed time to empty his head.  
  
  
  
  
Arthur didn’t know exactly how Eames got a hold of his personal number, but he did.  
  
“I’m stuck in Georgia, Arthur. Do you know anything about Georgia?” Eames greeted. His usual British accent was gone, meaning he was in-character for his flight. It was odd to hear Eames without his British accent; to hear him speak like another shallow guy from LA was a bit unnerving.  
  
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Eames. I don’t really care now if you please—”  
  
“Did I interrupt something, Arthur? Perhaps a lady friend over? No? No, of course not. Then a lovely male companion?”  
  
Arthur blushed at the mention of having “a lovely male companion.” Its not that Arthur was celibate but after taking on enough extraction jobs, he couldn’t help but to feel paranoid about who he shared a bed with. Though that reason did not explain the empty take out boxes piling up on his coffee table, or _Home Alone_ playing, muted, on his television. The dark-haired man cleared his throat and continued in an annoyed voice, “None of your business, Mr. Eames. Please don’t call this number again.”  
  
“Now, now, Arthur; are you upset because you didn’t get a package today? I know it’s our lovely anniversary—though I’m beginning to think that this relationship of ours is rather one-sided…”  
  
“Good night, Mr. Eames.”  
  
“Ah, now I know you don’t want to hang up, Arthur; you enjoy our talks. I’m the only one you’ve met who can keep you entertained for long enough,” Eames said and Arthur could just imagine him leaning against the telephone stall with a smug smirk on his face, tongue in cheek.  
  
“What in the world makes you think I enjoy speaking with you?”  
  
“Because,” Eames said whispering, his usual accent seeping through, “if you didn’t, you would have hung up by now.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes widened—he was thankful that Eames wasn’t there to witness his face.  
  
“Anyways, Arthur, your lovely gift will be arriving in a couple of days—and I do hope you enjoy it—”  
  
“I—” Arthur started, but he was cut off by Eames groaning.  
  
“God! This song again! Ridiculous! What is it with Georgia and this damn song?” Eames growled out. From the background Arthur could hear a familiar intro to a Christmas song.  
  
“Have a Holly Jolly Christmas—it’s the best time of the year—”  
  
“It’s Burl Ives. . . .”  
  
“I’m not American, Arthur. I don’t know who that is,” Eames said, unimpressed.  
  
“Well . . . I don’t think most Americans know who he is either. . . .”  
  
“Well then! Proves my point,” Eames said brightly.  
  
“And what exactly is your point, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked.  
  
“Hmm . . . I’m not sure though, but Happy Holidays, Arthur,” Eames said in a low and sincere voice. Arthur found it hard not to let the heat rise up on the back of his neck and cheeks.  
  
“I . . . um . . . you too,” Arthur said, and then finished it by clearing his throat. Even from over the phone he could hear Eames grinning. In the background, he heard a monotone voice announcing a flight was now cleared for boarding.  
  
“Oh look! My flight’s boarding. It’s been delayed for 3 hours, Arthur. Simply ridiculous. Cheers, Arthur—” and with that, the line went dead. Arthur stared a good full minute at his home handset before he too turned it off.  
  
Four days later, Arthur received a rather large package with the words “handle with care” plastered all over it.  
  
After meticulously opening the box, to his surprise, he found himself holding a guitar. Not just any guitar, but the exact same guitar that he had broken five weeks ago. Arthur picked up the Sapele guitar and tested out the strings, finding them out of tune. He sat in front of his door, where he started to tune the six guitar strings. Once the guitar was tuned, Arthur smiled and started to play familiar chord progressions, softening out the strings and testing out the new frets, which were yet to be worn in.  
  
An hour must have passed before he realized he was still sitting in front of his door admiring his new guitar. He inspected the guitar while wondering how in the world Eames knew he needed a new one, never mind to get the exact same model and brand. Then he noticed an envelope taped carefully on the top lid of the guitar’s box.  
  
  
Arthur stared at it before reaching for it. There were butterflies in his stomach as he started to open the envelope. This year the stock paper had a hand-painted water painting of Paris. On the back it read:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“To Arthur!  
  
Year two! Look at that! Now, before you think I’ve bugged your home or something, I haven’t. I can tell you’ve broken your guitar because at the job in Prague you didn’t have any extra luggage and I know you bring that silly guitar to your jobs—which I have to say I believe is a healthy and good thing! You have a creative stress-relieving outlet! Good for you!  
  
Now, if I am in any way wrong about the guitar then you can now learn how to play one and gain a creative stress-relieving outlet.  
  
Cheers, Arthur.  
  
Eames.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Arthur placed the card on the floor and went back to playing the guitar.  
  
  
C- G 7th, -C  
C- E diminished – G  
G 7th- C diminished- G 7th- E diminished  
G 7th- F diminished- C- G 7th  
  
Repeat…  
  
Have a holly jolly Christmas  
It’s the best time of the year  
I don’t know if there’ll be snow  
But have a cup of cheer…  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

  
  
Peace on earth and mercy mild  
God and sinners reconciled  
  
2002  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur is on legitimate business. Not dream-sharing business, but actual art gallery business. He has to keep up appearances, and so he’s now in Uffizi Gallery in Italy at some Gala party he’s been invited to—but he rarely enjoys these events. He is standing in front of “Madonna in Sorrow” by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrto. Arthur stood there admiring the workmanship of the artist’s brush strokes.  
  
  
  
  
  
“You’d think that since she’s ‘in sorrow’ he’d paint a few tear drops from her eyes or something, eh?” a familiar deep voice asked into Arthur’s left ear. Arthur flinched and turned quickly to find Eames standing behind him, dressed sharply in a well fitted tux and wearing a small smile on his face.  
  
  
“Hello, Arthur,” the British man said, stepping over to Arthur’s left. Eames wore a simple black tux, complete with a white bow tie. Eames looked like James Bond, in a glove like fitted tux and his accent played up to sound proper and posh. He even wore a proper red carnation on his lapel. The British man’s jaws were clean shaved making Arthur wonder how it would feel against Arthur’s own cheeks, but the idea was quickly terminated after he saw Eames’ full lips curve into a teasing smirk.  
  
  
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said after closing his mouth and composing himself. He glanced around at the other guests then looked back on the painting. “What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, trying to sound indifferent.  
  
“Hmmm—” Eames hummed out a smile as he looked at the Sassoerrto, “Working. You?”  
  
“I was invited to this party,” Arthur said. “H- how are you?” he asked quietly.  
  
  
  
Arthur last saw Eames nine months ago on an extraction job gone wrong. Eames was shot twice; before Arthur could manage the wheel, Eames somehow managed to shove Arthur out of the car before driving the car over a bridge.  
  
For three months, Arthur was sure that Eames had died, and he found himself surprisingly in a fit of depression. (If the small voice in the back of Arthur’s head had told him that it actually wasn’t that surprising that he was depressed, then Arthur took no substantiation off that.) It was three months and two weeks after Arthur last saw Eames drive over a bridge that he received a plain stock paper in his mailbox, without a drawing on it, but just the simple words:  
  
“I’m alive. I’m okay. See you soon.”  
  
  
  
  
“Quite well actually, it’s my first job back. Thought I’d do something easy like an art heist, ya know, just to keep limber,” Eames said, turning to Arthur. Arthur frowned a bit, the feeling of anger started to grow in the middle of his chest. Arthur silently gave a small huff and turned back and stared at the Madonna, not really looking at it—just starting at anything but Eames.  
  
“Aw, now, Arthur, no need to get angry with me,” Eames said, as if he knew what Arthur was thinking and feeling.  
  
“I’m not; why would I be?” Arthur asked curtly, still staring holes through the painting. Eames gave an apologetic smile before looking down at his feet and restancing himself.  
  
  
  
After a moment, Eames asked, “How do you like this painting? A fan of Italian Renaissance art?” Arthur peered over to the broader man and found that it was a genuine question.  
  
“Yes, in fact I’m a big fan of Italian painters in general,” Arthur said quietly before draining his flute.  
  
“Ah, good to know. What do you think of this particular painting though? As a gallery manager and an art critic?” Arthur wasn’t surprised Eames knew his real occupation. Arthur is never surprised now—Eames seemed to read him like an open book. From guessing what kind of collared shirts he preferred to what kinds of songs he played on his guitar, Eames always seemed to know; and that terrified him.  
  
When they were in Prague nine months back, something had happened between the two of them, but Arthur couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Just the way they spoke to each other and the way they sat and looked at each other, something was just . . . different.  
  
  
“Well,” Arthur started; he licked his dry lips and the gestured to the Madonna’s face, “When you said she should be crying you couldn’t be more wrong, because she already is. Just look,” Arthur said as he pointed. “Look at her eyes, then look at her lips.”  
  
“What of it?”  
  
“Well, her eyes are heavy. Dark, filled with this deep solace, not cold, just lukewarm as if she’s sad but she’s trying to accept it as gracefully as she can. Her lips, though, are smiling. See? Just faintly. She’s sad her son is dead… but she knows he’s going to rise again. She knows that everything is going to be okay, and that the pain is just temporary.”  
  
Eames hummed in acknowledgement, “Even though she knows she’s probably not going to see her son again? After he’s resurrected.”  
  
Arthur slowly looked up at Eames whose dark blue eyes seemed to be glossed with something of ruefulness and the need for reconciliation.  
  
“I don’t understand the question.”  
  
Eames took a step closer to Arthur, leaned over and spoke while staring deep into Arthur’s eyes, “Is she smiling even knowing that she may never see her son again, after he’s resurrected? Smiling even though she may never see him again; yes he is alive now—probably going to heaven—but she’ll never see him as long as she lives. Is she still smiling knowing that fact?”  
  
Arthur’s throat is parched and he can feel his breath sharply digging into his chest. Eames is too close to him and asking questions that obviously have a hidden meaning. Arthur didn’t want to answer—Eames had no right to ask anything of him. Throwing him out of a car so he could die like a martyr, to come back after all these months, pretend something hadn’t changed between them in Prague, and just . . .  
  
“Don’t be angry with me, Arthur,” Eames recited again in a whispered. His hand came up to Arthur’s holding the flute. For a second, Arthur thought Eames was going to take his hand, but instead the forger’s hand fell on his wrist where the artful fingers played with Arthur’s silver cufflinks.  
  
“I’m not angry,” Arthur said weakly in a broken breath. Eames gave a timid smile so unlike Eames’s usual confident smile. It was so unnatural to see Eames smile in such a manner that Arthur had to look away.  
  
  
A moment later, Eames coughed and then asked, “So if say someone, this is totally theoretical of course, had painted a fake and swapped it with this original painting and had sent it to you, how would you feel about that?”  
  
Arthur snapped his head up to Eames, bug-eyed.  
  
“Don’t. You. Dare.”  
  
“What? Why not? You like it! Give me 2 weeks and there’s your belated anniversary gift!” Eames whispered playfully as he gave Arthur’s cufflinks a flick. Arthur just glared at Eames, finding no amusement in what the British man was saying. “Okay, okay. Fine. Not funny—I will leave all art pieces aside from the one I was commissioned to steal,” Eames said with tongue in cheek, “Now, tell me about that painting, Arthur.”  
  
  
Eames and Arthur didn’t speak of the nine months behind them; instead, they walked around the gallery as they traded their critique of each piece ‘till around 10:30. Then Eames smiled sadly at Arthur.  
  
“I’m going to turn into an art thief now, Arthur; I’m afraid I have to leave you.”  
  
“For a second, I thought you were going to say you were going to turn into a pumpkin,” Arthur said, giving an understanding smile.  
  
Eames stared at Arthur, making Arthur slightly nervous again—like when he was opening his card sometime around this time last year. Arthur’s insides seemed to quiver at the way Eames’s dark blue-gray eyes seemed to burn into Arthur’s skin and make him feel hot all over.  
  
  
“Arthur—” Eames started, his British vowels dragging the second syllable to his name, “when I pushed you out of the car in Prague. . . .”  
  
“Don’t . . . don’t worry about it,” Arthur said, shutting his eyes away from Eames’s stare. Once he shut his eyes, all he could see was the frenzy of red bleeding out of Eames and the car leaping off the bridge.  
  
“I . . . I sincerely thought I was going to die, Arthur. I wasn’t going to drag you in with me. You have to understand,” Eames said.  
  
“I said it’s fine. It’s okay—I . . . I’m okay, you’re okay, and you have a job to do, yes?” Arthur said as he gave Eames a tight smile and a nod, which Eames didn’t seem to buy. Eames’s eyes were like the deep ends of the ocean—it was always so . . . moving. . . .  
  
“Well then, take care, Arthur,” Eames said. Arthur simply nodded, not trusting his voice. Eames drew his hand and cupped the back of Arthur’s head, and for a split millisecond Arthur thought Eames was going to draw him closer and do . . . do something, but instead Eames simply lowered his hand and squeezed the exposed part of Arthur’s neck. As soon as their skin touched, Arthur felt a jolt go through him. It wasn’t until after he saw Eames disappear into the crowd of rich attendees that he flung his hand where Eames had touched him just to make sure that Eames’s hand wasn’t still there.  
  
The phantom touch didn’t go away for hours.  
  
  
  
When Arthur arrived back from Italy a week later, he found a mail notice stating he needed to go to the post office to pick up a rather large shipment.  
  
  
  
  
There was no card that year, but on the back of the canvas Arthur could read Eames’s messy writing in pencil,  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“I’m not going to tell you if this one is real or fake though you already know its not but if it was real how scandalous it is that I’ve written on the back of it?  
  
Eames.”_  
  
  
  
  


### We Need A Little Christmas Now

  
It's time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.  
For I've grown a little leaner,  
Grown a little colder,  
Grown a little sadder,  
Grown a little older  
And I need a little angel  
Sitting on my shoulder,  
Need a little Christmas now.  
  
2003  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He had to admit that he was a bit addicted to the dream-sharing—he’d heard of dream-sharing dens where people paid to go into deep sleep and just spend entire lifetimes in a dream, but Arthur refused to fall that deep.  
  
  
Arthur had refused to take on any jobs this year—he felt that for the last three years he had been getting too deep into the criminal class, taking on too many jobs away from his “daytime” job. This had nothing to do with the last job he took with Eames in Prague, or just Eames in general. Well, that’s what Arthur told himself at night before going to bed, anyway.  
  
Eames had called him a couple times throughout the year, asking if he wanted in as point or as an architect for a job, but every time Arthur refused. Eames never pushed for a reason why or called him out on his bullshit excuses—just teased him about how sad he was going to be working alone surrounded by pigs who would never fully appreciate the brilliancy of his plans. He always ended the call, “Maybe next time then, eh, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur always replied back with, “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”  
  
  
  
It’s Christmastime and Arthur has nothing to do. Everyone else around him at work (his on-paper work) had something planned. Places to go, parties to plan, people to see—but Arthur didn’t really have any close friends he kept in contact with, or family to visit. It was pitiful how Arthur had spent the last four days in his loft doing fuck nothing.  
  
At first he decided to spoil himself for the holidays and went out in search of a new suit, but everywhere he went was filled with people and crying children and sick shoppers, so that he ended up borrowing bad movies and holing up in his apartment.  
  
About two days ago Arthur started talking to himself, and he found it disconcerting. So, in order to feel better about himself, he dug out the stuffed elephant from his closet and set it down near him, never close but a reachable distance away, and spoke to it, like while watching _Titanic_ he would turn to the spotted elephant and say, “Why doesn’t she just move over? Then he’ll be out of the water?”  
  
  
  
It’s Christmas Eve and Arthur plans to get piss drunk so he can sleep through Christmas day. Arthur popped open his first bottle of wine, but before he could take a sip, there was a knock at his door.  
  
“I’m just going to ignore that. There is no one in my life to come and visit me on Christmas Eve without calling first,” Arthur muttered to himself. “Probably carolers. . . .”  
  
  
Another knock came upon his door, and it got louder and faster and faster until—  
  
“WHAT?!” Arthur swung open his door to find Eames with his hand still held up in a knocking position. The forger smiled.  
  
  
“Arthur! Is that scruff?”  
  
“Wha- What are you doing here?” Arthur exclaimed, spreading his arms open to block the doorway as Eames tried to take a step forward.  
  
“Oh, how rude, Arthur. I know you better than that!” Eames said, noticing the glass of wine still in Arthur’s hand. “Oh my, orange wine? Really Arthur? How pretentious!” Eames said delightedly as he plucked the glass out of Arthur’s hand and sipped it, pushing past Arthur and making his way to Arthur’s sofa. Arthur closed and locked the door behind them, grumbling. He fell short of yelling at Eames when he saw the man smiling smugly at him from his sofa, the spotted elephant in hand. “Admit it. He is precious, is he not?”  
  
Arthur bit his lip, forcing his blush to die down and slowly counted to 10 before marching into his kitchen for harder liquor.  
  
“Don’t drink, Arthur, that would spoil my gift!” Eames exclaimed from the sofa. Arthur sighed as he stopped pouring vodka into a tumbler. He pinched his nose and rubbed his temple. Moments later, he marched back into the living room demanding an explanation for Eames’s presence: “Seriously, what are you doing here?”  
  
“Well, you’re a downright Grinch this year, aren’t you?”  
  
“Just answer the question, Mr. Eames.”  
  
“Just hand-delivering your gift, Arthur. It’s rather . . . um . . . particular and I couldn’t just mail it, you see,” Eames said as he motioned his head at his feet where a silver case lay. Arthur’s mouth opened a little.  
  
“Is, is that a—”  
  
“Yes, Arthur it is! Merry Christmas, Happy Anniversary! Want to try?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They’re on a bridge—it’s snowing down gently.  
“Is this the Thames?”  
  
“Yes. One of my favorite walking places—well was. Can’t really get back into the country, I’m afraid. Had a bit of a tiff with one of the members in Parliament. Long story. . . . Anyways!” Eames said, clapping his hands once as he stood next to Arthur, admiring the view.  
  
“The air smells so—”  
  
“Damp,” Eames filled in, causing Arthur to roll his eyes and look at him with an exasperated expression.  
  
“I was going to say crisp, fresh.”  
  
“Oh, well that, too, then.”  
  
“Come on—” Eames said as he hooked his arm with Arthur’s, leading him down along the street colorfully decorated with tinsels and wreathes.  
  
“Everything is so colorful.”  
  
“Yeah, we Europeans take Christmas very seriously,” Eames said, stressing the word “very.”  
  
“It’s nice,” Arthur supplied as he looked at the decorations on each store window. “This is nice,” Arthur said as he looked at Eames and gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you.”  
  
“Not a problem, Arthur,” Eames spoke “Why don’t you enjoy your dream, Arthur? Dream and make something festive and fun?”  
  
Arthur gave Eames a beaming smile, eager to create something—it had been too long and Arthur was shaking with excitement to build.  
  
Once Arthur finished building a green glass building in a shape of a Christmas tree, he turned to find out that Eames was no longer in the dream. About 30 minutes later in dream time, Arthur woke up on his sofa in a comfortable supine position with a blanket thrown over him and the spotted elephant wedged between his left elbow and the armrest. Arthur turned his head in the direction of the door to find a familiar envelope taped to the door. Arthur quickly unhooked himself from the PASIV and scampered his way to the door, snatching at the envelope.  
  
Arthur felt a wave of heat creep up his face once he opened up the envelope to find the stock card with a quick sketch of himself sleeping on his sofa. The image of Eames, drawing him, sitting across from Arthur as he was dreaming, made Arthur feel somewhat exposed and yet so . . . so. . . .  
  
  
  
Arthur slowly flipped the card over; it read:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“No need to be afraid, darling. Promise I won’t try to get killed anymore._  
 _And everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, okay?_  
 _Happy dreams—_  
 __  
 _Eames.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

### I’ll Be Home For Christmas

  
Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love light gleams  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams  
If only in my dreams  
  
2004  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur had worked with Eames three times this year. Once during March, and twice during June—it counted as two because it was a two-part job; and both times meeting Eames again, Arthur felt like an utter school girl not knowing what to do in front of the boy she was crazy about. By the end of each job, Arthur began to hate himself a little more and was convinced that it was probably some elaborate plan Eames had conjured up to shoot Arthur’s self esteem to hell.  
  
  
Arthur didn’t hear from Eames that Christmas, but Arthur suspected he’d receive something in the mail within the week, but two weeks later, and still there was nothing in the mail. Arthur then tried to locate Eames, going through his usual contacts and trying to work under the radar, in case Eames was simply in hiding. He didn’t want to raise any flags, but even after a week of searching high and low, Eames was nowhere to be found.  
  
It was in the middle of January when Arthur got a phone call in the middle of the night.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
There was no response, just harsh breathing.  
  
  
“Hello?” Arthur asked again, and then it struck him.  
  
“E- Eames?”  
  
“. . . Arthur. . . .”  
  
“God, fuck, Eames, where have you been?” Arthur sat up on his bed, now alert.  
  
“Hmm—” Eames hummed out in dark amusement. “Not quite sure; I think I hopped on a plane to Buenos Aires, and then, I think . . . I don’t remember if I ever left—but I realized what date it was darling and I just felt horrible and I just . . . forgive me Arthur, really. I didn’t mean to forget just—I’m a horrible drunk you see, Arthur. . . .”  
  
  
“Don’t . . . don’t worry about it. Jesus, Eames, are you still drunk?”  
  
“I believe I am, Arthur. I believe it’s called mourning, but I can’t be sure—never really mourned when the old man died but . . . Jesus. . . .”  
  
Arthur opened his mouth but was at a loss to what he could possibly say. “Eames.” No reply. “Eames,” Arthur called out again, but all he heard from the other side was snuffles and heavy breathes.  
  
“D- Daniel?” Arthur called out quietly and nervously.  
  
Arthur heard Eames choke out a laugh.  
  
“I knew you knew my real name—you lied when you said you didn’t; you’re a liar, Arthur,” Eames said with no real heat in his voice, just defeat.  
  
“Where are you, I can—” Arthur started, but was cut off by Eames.  
  
“I can’t go back—my old man, he made it impossible for me to get back into the country, and I can’t, I can’t—I couldn’t even be there for my own mother’s funeral, Arthur. Christ!”  
  
Arthur gripped his phone, wishing he could do something.  
  
“For the first time, Arthur, in a long time I just want to go home. Arthur, I just want to go home.”  
  
Arthur closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly before calmly speaking,  
  
“You’re just tired,”  
  
Eames gave a dark laugh, “Yes. I’m tired.”  
  
“You need to sober up and rest.”  
  
“S- sober up . . . yeah. Yeah, okay.”  
  
“Are you somewhere safe?” Arthur asked, making Eames laugh again, probably because Eames found it funny that Arthur would ask something like that.  
  
“I’m in my incredibly cheap hotel room, Arthur, on the floor drinking my life away. You’d be proud.”  
  
Arthur bit his tongue from saying “No, not really.” Instead he said, “Go to bed, Eames—go on.” Eames groaned a bit but eventually Arthur heard the creaking of the springs of the cheap mattress and an “oof” sound coming from Eames. “Now just close your eyes and go to sleep.”  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything this year, Arthur,” Eames whispered into the mouthpiece; sleep was heavy in his voice.  
  
“I never get you anything,” Arthur said slowly.  
  
“No, that’s not true,” Eames responded. “Every year, every damn year, you still let me in your life.”  
  
There was a clenching in Arthur’s chest, something constricting and making it hard to breathe. Arthur was afraid that he’d break his handset from gripping it too hard.  
  
“Every year I send you something and you take it in—and the following year you let me in again and again.” Eames breathed in sharply then continued, “Maybe one day we’ll spend a full Christmas day together?”  
  
  
  
The thought of spending a Christmas with Eames made something in Arthur shake, and he didn’t know if it was because the thought terrified him or excited him. It was highly possible that it could have been both.  
  
  
“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said quietly, and after a few seconds he heard a click of the phone being disconnected. Arthur slowly lowered his phone from his ear and turned it off. For a good ten minutes, Arthur sat on his bed in the dark. Then he quickly got out of bed, turned on the lights and packed a suitcase. The drive to LAX was a blur and so was the call to his assistant, as he made up something about a death in the family and a quick apology for calling in the middle of the night. Then, he waited impatiently for the next flight to London.  
  
  
It wasn’t hard for Arthur to find out where Eames’s mother was buried.  
  
He bought a big bundle of three dozen out-of-season red roses and made his way to where Eames’s mother lay. She was buried in a private cemetery which looked very upscale, next to her husband. They shared headstones with their names and dates.  
  
  
  
“Angela Marcella Emerest  
Beloved Mother, Sister and Friend  
Angel amongst men”  
  
  
  
  
Arthur kneeled onto the icy grass and placed the red roses in front of the headstone.  
  
“He really wanted to be here. But I _promise_ I’ll find a way to bring him back home to you.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


###    
Let It Snow

  
When we finally kiss goodnight  
How I’ll hate going out in the storm  
But if you’ll really hold me tight…  
  
2005  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur was in Paris, asked to be at an event in the Louvre.  
Unfortunately, the event had been cancelled due to heavy snow, so Arthur decided to hang around the lobby café. He sat in the corner of the dimly-lit café, drinking Café au Lait, as he smoked a cigarette. He decided to finish a book he had picked up at LAX before departure.  
  
Arthur rarely smoked, but something about Paris always made him crave one—so he sipped at his small coffee cup and took a drag of his cigarette every other paragraph, until someone dragged the chair opposite him and sat down.  
  
“I believe this is what they call serendipity.”  
  
Arthur’s head snapped up, and there he was, Eames.  
  
It was the first time he had seen Eames since last year’s phone call, and Eames looked a lot thinner than what Arthur remembered. His eyes, too, were a little bit more aged and ragged, but his lips—his plump lips—still wore a familiar smile. Arthur froze, his cigarette hand paused midway from making it to the destination of his lips, his eyes wide.  
  
“I didn’t know you smoked, Arthur. Surprises every time.” Arthur swore that he had just heard Eames purr out his name.  
  
“I usually don’t,” Arthur said, recovering from bewilderment. He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves. “Something about Paris.”  
  
“Something about Paris,” Eames echoed as he leaned onto the table and settled his elbows on it, his hand rubbing his stubble.  
  
The art critic looked away and moved his cigarette to the ashtray to extinguish, but Eames took a hold of his hand, stopping him. Arthur’s eyes flicked up to Eames, who stared blatantly at him. Eames continued to take his hand, bringing the cigarette up to his lips to take his own deep drag. Eames didn’t stop there, however. Boldly, he plucked the stubby cigarette from Arthur’s hand with his other, and stubbed it out onto the tray.  
  
  
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Arthur asked in a low voice. He was quite proud of himself for keeping his voice steady, as Eames released his drag and drew Arthur’s hand closer, taking his fingers and nuzzling lightly against them. Arthur could feel Eames inhaling deeply against his fingers, as he nestled against his hand. He could even see Eames closing his eyes and just breathing in, as his thumb made gentle circles on the back of his hand.  
  
“Hmm, sorry. What did you ask?” Eames asked after a moment, opening his eyes and looking up at Arthur.  
  
“I . . . uh. . . .”  
  
“Oh, Paris,” Eames called out as if he finally registered Arthur’s question. He continued as he kept studying Arthur’s hand, “I’m here to meet up with someone, a professor apparently. He has a theory on better navigations to the human mind,” Eames said as he took his other hand and kneaded Arthur’s knuckles with his two thumbs.  
  
“Oh, you haven’t met them yet, then?” Arthur questioned after swallowing a large lump in his throat.  
  
“No,” Eames said, unusually mellow. His concentration was still held on Arthur’s hand. “The snow’s made it impossible for me to go meet up with the professor.” Then, he looked up with a wide smile on his face and a cheery look in his eyes, shoulders relaxed and comfortable. “But what a wonder, isn’t it, Arthur? We end up being snowed in at the same hotel.”  
  
Arthur didn’t trust himself to speak. He simply nodded and took his other hand to sip his coffee.  
  
  
The forger continued to pad soft circles and patterns onto the skin of Arthur’s hand. After a moment, Eames asked, “What are you doing in Paris? Holiday?”  
  
  
“No, um, had an exhibition opening at the Louvre—same as you. The event was cancelled due to the snow,” Arthur explained.  
  
“God bless the weather, then. Perhaps we’ll spend Christmas together after all,” Eames said quietly, as he leaned closer against the table. “What are the chances, Arthur? Really? I mean, really, what are the chances we are in the same city, at the same time, at the same hotel?”  
  
“Makes me think that it’s not a matter of chance, but more of a rigged game to me,” Arthur replied, as he raised a brow in suspicion. Eames threw his head back and laughed. There it was again, the clenching in his chest.  
  
“I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so, but no. I promise you, Arthur,” Eames said and damn his English vowels that made Arthur heat up like a stove. “This is as much of a delightful surprise to me as it is to you.”  
  
“What makes you think that this is a delightful surprise for me?” Arthur whispered, failing to sound dissatisfied as he stared at the hypnotic movements of the forger’s thumbs on his skin, creating ripples of yearning.  
  
The younger man heard Eames starting to smile with his full lips, arching so perfectly into a flawless smile right before he said, “Because you haven’t taken your hand back yet.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes flicked back towards Eames’s dark, stormy orbs.  
  
“Maybe I should then,” Arthur offered but did not move. The British man stared into Arthur’s eyes, then looked back down to the ridges of Arthur’s knuckles and took them to his lips, kissing every groove of Arthur’s hand. Eames then looked up with his lips still pressed softly against Arthur’s knuckles.  
  
Eames groaned softly as he grazed his lips against Arthur’s knuckles and said, “I’m willing to bet that you won’t.”  
  
“I can’t guarantee that it won’t be a rigged game, though.”  
  
“I’ll take my chances.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
That night was mostly a blur, not because it was a fast and furious frenzy, but because it just felt so surreal.  
  
There were things, though, that Arthur could not forget, like the sensation of wrapping his arms around Eames’s neck; how the curves of the older man’s shoulder seemed to be made for Arthur to perch his arms on, and how the forger’s lips set trails of fire against the column of his neck. He remembered how Eames sat in the middle of his bed, Arthur in Eames’ lap as the forger’s sex perforated oh-so smoothly into Arthur’s body, filling him right down to the bottom of what Arthur could only explain as his soul. He remembered memorizing the two bullet holes left on Eames’ chest and torso, worshiping the scars with his mouth and tongue, thanking a God he had not prayed to in years, blessing each scar with a small prayer, “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha‑olam, she‑hehiyanu v'kiy'manu v'higi'anu la‑z'man ha‑ze.” “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season . . . thank you, thank you thank you, thank you. . . .” He remembered how the two moved so in sync, while the thin hotel sheets clung against their sweat-ridden bodies, as their hands came together fitting like puzzle pieces, as Arthur laid on his back, opening himself to Eames who seemed to give rather than take him.  
  
  
When Arthur woke, he found Eames was already gone. There was a note on the hotel stationary with Eames’s customary handwriting, explaining how the snow had lightened up and he had to meet the professor while there was still a chance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“Hate to leave you to wake up alone, Arthur. I really do. . . .  
Your gift, I believe, will be waiting for you when you get home.  
Bon Voyage, Arthur.  
Until we see each other again,  
Eames.” _  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When Arthur arrived home two days later, he found a small parcel waiting in his mailbox. He did not even wait to go inside to open it; instead he opened it right in front of the still-open mailbox. He carelessly ripped through the brown paper, nearly tearing straight through the box. The cardboard box held yet another box. Arthur saw the trademark red and golden embroideries of the Cartier gift case, and knew instantly that the gift was pricey.  
  
He flipped the box open to find a beautiful watch, simple yet elegant. Arthur marveled at the watch, as he tentatively touched the black leather of the band. Quickly, he took the watch out of the red case, pushing it over his left hand. The same hand Eames seemed so fascinated with at the café.  
  
  
Arthur looked at his wrist after he had finished fastening the watch, and drew in a sharp gasp.  
  
The watch suited him faultlessly. It was almost as if Arthur had gone to the store and purchased it for himself.  
  
“You know me so well. . . .” Arthur breathed out the breath he had been holding in, his words being released in a white puff into the cold air. He quickly dug into the cardboard box in search of the usual card.  
  
Arthur ripped open the envelope, digging out the card. The front of it was drawn with a fountain pen, lines inky and thick. To Arthur’s surprise, it was himself, sitting at the corner of the café, cigarette in one hand, book on his lap, legs crossed. The detail reached the nature of his tie clip. Behind the card it read:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Why you indulge me, I’ll never know.  
And thank you. She really did love red roses.  
  
Daniel _  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### Baby, It’s Cold Outside

  
Well, think of my lifelong sorrow  
If you caught pneumonia and died  
Get over that hold out  
  
2006  
  
  
  
  
  
Throughout the year Arthur worked with Eames just the once in Monaco during the summer. They kept on smiling at each other across the room, and both tiptoed around each other, not really sure how to react to each other.  
  
“We need to be, ya know . . . be professional,” Arthur said.  
  
“Yeah, yes! Of course,” Eames said nodding furiously, agreeing with Arthur, but as soon as the last person walked out the door after the job was finished, they both grabbed at each other and had sex on the meeting table.  
  
  
Arthur rapidly worked on the buttons of Eames’s short sleeve shirt as Eames pulled on Arthur’s vest.  
  
“Ridiculous—” Eames said against Arthur bottom lip as he growled and just tore open his vest and Arthur’s shirt making the buttons pop in multiple directions. “It’s so fucking hot here and you’re wearing a fucking vest.”  
  
“I dress well. What—” Arthur stopped mid-sentence as Eames ducked his head to take Arthur’s nipple into his mouth, “Wh- what is, fuck, what’s wrong with that?”  
  
“You’re still defending your clothes; I’m clearly not trying hard enough,” Eames said as he hoisted Arthur up, and automatically Arthur wrapped his legs around Eames’ thick waist, and they continued to strip one another.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They ended up breaking the table; one of the legs gave out and the table collapsed to the floor—both of them giggled profusely afterwards.  
  
As Arthur and Eames tried to put their clothes back on and look somewhat presentable, Arthur asked, as nonchalantly as he could, “So…what are you doing for Christmas?”  
  
Eames looked over at Arthur, his hands stilling from buttoning up. “Why do you ask?” he asked as he too tried to reply back nonchalantly.  
  
“Well, ya know—I was thinking if you’re not doing anything we could . . . meet up somewhere. Or maybe you can even hand-deliver your gift?” Arthur asked looking up at Eames who had a giant smile on his face.  
  
“Arthur, are you asking me over for the holidays?” False skepticism was laced in Eames voice, which made Arthur roll his eyes.  
  
“Yes or no, Mr. Eames. It’s simple as that,” Arthur said, trying to sound annoyed.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames said as he took his hand and cupped the younger man’s face and lifted up to his view. Arthur blushed at the earnest way Eames looked at him. “I’d love to spend the holidays with you,” Eames spoke softly before bringing Arthur closer and kissing him. Arthur’s hand automatically found its way to the back of Eames’ head, fingers raking in through the light brown hair.  
  
  
“Good,” Arthur breathed out as they parted, staring at Eames’s red swollen lips, “That’s . . . that’s good.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“This is bad . . . this is so bad. . . .” Arthur told himself as he looked at himself in the mirror. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his skin looked so pasty. His eyes were rimmed red and glossed over with a fever.  
  
It was December 23rd, and Arthur had gotten sick with flu. Any day now Eames would be coming to his door with a giant smile on his face and Arthur was sick.  
  
Arthur washed his face with cold water and then stepped out into his living room. It was only 10 in the morning.  
  
“Okay, I will take Nyquil and I will sleep this off,” Arthur spoke nasally to the spotted elephant who sat innocently on his kitchen bar. “Glad we agree,” Arthur said as he swallowed his pills with a glass of orange juice.  
  
  
  
Some time later, he was woke up by something cool and wet being placed on his forehead. Arthur struggled to breathe, let alone open his eyes.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay, Arthur; just me.” Soothing British tones happily invaded his ears.  
  
“Eames?” Arthur cracked opened his eyes to find Eames looking down on him with a gentle smile.  
  
“Hello there,” he greeted quietly.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur croaked back then went through a fit of coughs.  
  
“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Eames said as he helped Arthur up, then placed pillows behind his back to keep him propped up.  
  
“Sorry . . . sick.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” Eames said with a smile taking the neglected cool cloth from his bedside table and began to wipe Arthur’s forehead. “You’re also burning up. Oh! I let myself in, picked your lock, and your alarm code was ridiculously easy, Arthur dear.”  
  
Arthur grunted a reply.  
  
“Sorry, this was not what we were supposed to be doing,” Arthur said.  
  
“And what, exactly, were we supposed to be doing?” Eames asked in a mischievous tone, fully knowing what he and Arthur were supposed to be doing. “Oh dear, you must really be ill, you didn’t even roll your eyes at me,” Eames noted as he finished wiping down Arthur’s forehead, neck and shoulders.  
  
“Hmmph,” the sick man gave a despondent noise as confirmation. “I am sorry, though.”  
  
“Oh stop apologizing, Arthur, unless you purposely told your immune system to neglect their duties and get ill. It’s fine—people get sick, it happens,” the forger said as he tossed the towel onto the nightstand and handed Arthur a glass of water. “Slowly,” he said as Arthur drank.  
  
“You’re going to get sick,” Arthur told Eames as he handed the empty glass back to him.  
  
“Hmm, I don’t know; I’m pretty resilient”  
  
“Really, though, you’re going to get sick like me and hate the world and everything that comes with it,” Arthur groaned. Eames chuckled softly and cupped Arthur’s face in his ridiculously huge, cool, soothing hands.  
  
“I think I like you sick—much more open and less filtered.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames and Arthur ended up spooning up against each other. Layers of blankets and Eames’s arm cocooned Arthur. When Arthur woke up again it was 4 in the morning and he desperately needed to use the restroom. He squirmed and extracted himself out of the layers of blankets and Eames’s arm. He froze when he felt Eames shift but continued once Eames settled. He padded over to his bathroom to relieve himself, then decided to take a quick rinse to wash off all the sweat from the night.  
  
By the time Arthur came out of the shower, Eames was lying on the bed with a lazy smile on his face.  
  
“You look better,” he said. Arthur smiled after he finished ruffling a towel through his hair.  
  
“I feel better—much better—but I still feel like shit.”  
  
“Come here,” Eames said, sitting up on the bed and reaching for Arthur’s forehead.  
  
“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” Arthur asked playfully, but found himself to sound a little bit ridiculous speaking with a slightly stuffy nose.  
  
“You’ll live, but just barely—” Eames replied back with a smirk. “You’ve run out of cold medication, by the way, and you need food in your fridge. I should go out and get some.”  
  
  
“What? No, don’t do that—” Arthur protested, “I’ll just take some aspirin and we’ll order in.”  
  
“What? With junk food, no—you need a feel-good meal, Arthur,” Eames told him as he pulled Arthur back towards the bed.  
  
“I would have changed the sheets, but I didn’t know where they were—you just go back to bed and I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”  
  
“Eames—no, just, let’s just go back to sleep. It’s like 5 in the morning right now. Just stay. Go later,” Arthur groused as he pulled the rising Eames back down onto the mattress.  
  
“You have nothing to eat in when you wake up again, and it’s not good to take any medication on an empty stomach. 30 minutes. I’ll be back.”  
  
“It’s cold out, and it’s still dark, just go when it gets lighter—” Arthur rebuked, making Eames laugh a little.  
  
“Really? It’s cold outside so I should stay?” Arthur pursed his lips.  
  
“Fine, I’m cold, so stay and keep me warm.” Eames looked at Arthur and Arthur could see defeat in his eyes. Eames sighed and raised his hands up.  
  
“Fine. Fine, I’ll go in a couple of hours—come on, let’s get you back into bed.”  
  
Eames took Arthur into his arms and nestled him against his chest. Arthur had nothing to complain about. They laid there in silence just enjoying each other’s warmth.  
  
“We should . . . do something for New Years,” Arthur stated.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You know, Christmas plans didn’t go well so we should go do something for the New Year,” the younger man explained. Eames bent his face down onto the top of Arthur’s head, into the dark hair and smiled.  
  
“Okay. We could go to Paris again. We didn’t really get to spend much time together there—everything was very. . . .”  
  
“Impulsive,” Arthur supplied as Eames laughed in agreement.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Do you think that we had that kind of impulse for each other the moment we met?” Eames asked after a moment as he took one of his hands and laced it with Arthur’s.  
  
Arthur thought for a moment then answered, “I don’t know. At first I hated you. A lot. You annoyed me and I thought you were pulling my leg with the first gift.”  
  
“Yeah? What changed?” Eames asked against Arthur’s temple while padding the web of skin in between Arthur’s thumb and index.  
  
“What makes you think that changed?” Arthur asked as he turned his head towards Eames and smiled cheekily.  
  
“Mmm, Arthur, such a liar,” Eames said as he bent down and kissed behind Arthur’s ear. They shared a broken laugh, both remembering their own set of memories of each other as Arthur continued more sincerely.  
  
“I think I just got to know you better and then I just started to realize something, and that thing terrified me. It still does.” Eames stopped padding Arthur’s hand and then hovered over Arthur.  
  
“What do you mean?” he asked looking a bit confused.  
  
Arthur turned on his back to look straight up at Eames.  
  
“Like, when I first started realizing that I had these . . . feelings for you; I didn’t know what to do.” Arthur started looking straight at Eames, “Then I felt frustrated and I just. . . .”  
  
Arthur paused and looked away from Eames’s gaze and decided that Eames’s shoulder would be a great place to stare at.  
  
“When you go shot, I thought I was going to die.”  
  
  
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames whispered apologetically.  
  
  
“When you got shot twice, I thought I did die and throughout that whole time I had no idea why I had this feeling of . . . of—” Arthur tried to find the right word to use, but no word seemed to rival the sensation he had felt. In the back of his head he could hear the squealing of tires and the pounding blasts of gunshots and Eames suddenly swerving. Bright crimson oozing through Eames’s gray shirt; one minute Arthur was pressing down on Eames’s wounds, trying to go for the wheel, and then the next moment he was thrown out of the car, left to horrifically watch the white Audi fly over the bridge.  
  
Arthur blinked his eyes open when he felt a cool and callused hand cup the back of his head. Eames drew him closer and pressed against Arthur’s chapped lips. The kiss was soft, and short, but so heavy and grand, filled with so many unsaid words, starting from “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” to “I think I’m in love with you; don’t you dare leave me. . . .”  
  
Eames rested his forehead against Arthur’s. Their breaths mingled together in the small space between them. Eames’s fingers entangled themselves with Arthur’s long, dark locks; their chests touched each other, Eames’s heart pressed firmly against Arthur’s right and Arthur’s heart pressed against the empty space of Eames’s right.  
  
“I never want to make you feel that way. It was never my intention, Arthur.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur replied as he closed his eyes and melted into the warmth Eames’s broad body emitted. His arms wrapped around the girth of Eames’s neck.  
  
“When I first met you, you terrified me, too,” Eames said. Arthur stayed quiet to let him continue.  
  
“I saw you and something in my body, in my mind, just wanted to own you. At first I thought it must have been because you were beautiful. Stunning smarts, gorgeous face, aesthetic body.” Eames continued on as he tucked Arthur’s drying hair behind his ear, “So I thought I could amuse myself—turn you into a game—but the more I found out about you . . . I found you never ending.” Arthur slowly opened his eyes, his eyelashes brushing against the long blonde ones of Eames.  
  
Eames lifted his head a bit to focus on Arthur’s face and smiled in a way that made Arthur’s jaw drop a little and eyes heat up as if he was the virgin Mary in ecstasy in the presence of the Lord.  
  
“You, Arthur darling . . . you seem to go on forever for me.”  
  
  
Arthur had no idea what that meant, but he found that the only thing he could really do is draw Eames’s head down and kiss him, open-mouth and open-heart.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On the first week of January they did end up going to Paris, where Arthur was introduced to Professor Miles and his daughter Malorie Miles and Miles’ protégé and son-in-law, Dominic Cobb. When Arthur and Eames were not experimenting in the dream-scape with Dominic and Malorie, he and Eames explored each other, physically and beyond, and in the back of Arthur’s mind he thought, “This must be how it feels when two people merge into one entity.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

### Home For Christmas

  
I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love  
Even more than I usually do  
And although I know it's a long road back  
I promise you  
  
2007  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Everything moved extremely fast after New Years. By March, Arthur had resigned from his position at The Getty and was traveling the world with Eames, working job-to-job and just being together. And for a while it was wonderful. Complete bliss.  
  
  
Until Tel Aviv.  
  
In short, an extraction job for an anonymous and very shady client who took failure very seriously— he decided to eliminate each member of the team. Eames and Arthur were on the lamb, trying to flee the country, but it seemed that whoever had hired them remained anonymous because of the political position, because getting out of the country was near impossible.  
  
  
“This is insane.”  
  
“Yes, Arthur dear, you’ve said so more than enough now,” Eames said. He muttered so that only Arthur could hear, “Very luck that you speak fluent Hebrew and I speak fluent Arabic from my army days.”  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes as he helped Eames pull up the fishing net. The two had posed as minimum wage workers-for-hire near the docks and quickly boarded the first fishing boat that was willing to hire cheap labor.  
  
“As soon as this boat anchors off near enough to Lebanon, we just need to send the coordinates to Mackey,” Eames said.  
  
Mackey was Eames’s friend in Lebanon who had agreed for a certain amount of money and a Monet painting that he’d bring out a boat to meet them if they could get themselves out to sea.  
  
“What makes you think Mackey is reliable?”  
  
“Arthur, trust me, yeah?” Eames said as he heaved the net onto the deck, releasing the trapped fish to flop around.  
  
  
  
  
After Arthur snuck himself down to the radio room to send the coordinates to Mackey, it wasn’t long before Eames and Arthur noticed a speedy motorboat in the distance.  
  
“That’s him!” Eames said as he stripped down to his thinnest layer. Arthur did the same and following Eames overboard. They could hear the other fishermen shouting at them in Hebrew but the two men swam as quickly as they could to the boat slowing down in their direction.  
  
“Mackey!” Eames said as he grabbed the ledge of the boat with one hand and reached out his other to grab a hold of Arthur.  
  
“Eames, my man!” the American greeted. Mackey was a stubby, round man who wore an out-of-style mustache. Eames helped Arthur onto the boat and then hoisted himself up as well.  
  
“Alrighty, back to Lebanon,” Mackey said.  
  
“The planes ready for us?” Arthur asked after he caught his breath.  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah. As soon as you guys finish getting dressed, I drop you guys off at the spot at 9 tonight,” Mackey said. Arthur narrowed his eyes and studied Mackey, still not trusting him.  
  
“Love, please—Mackey is harmless and we are finally going home,” Eames said. “Well… metaphorical home. Right in time for Christmas, no less; we could even go to Paris after this—well deserved rest I think.”  
  
Paris did sound lovely. They could even visit Miles again. Miles would enjoy the visit—because last he heard Malorie wasn’t doing too well… something about depression as a side effect from the Somnicin.  
  
“Yeah . . . that sounds good.”  
  
  
  
It was not good.  
They never got to Paris, and Arthur’s first instinct about Mackey was right. Mackey had sold them out to the anonymous client and by the time they finished docking in Lebanon, there were men waiting for them.  
  
In the end Eames had to shoot Mackey straight to the head after Mackey head-locked Arthur and pointed a gun to his temple.  
  
“Just do what these scary looking men want you to do, Eames. Really, I think that’s best,” Mackey said; he tightened his grip on Arthur’s neck as Arthur tried to ring free from.  
  
“Let him go, Mackey. I swear to God I’ll kill you.”  
  
“You’re outnumbered, man! Look around! Its seven against two, and you’ve got one little gun on you,” Mackey taunted, “Come on, man; put your gun down or pretty boy gets it, yeah?”  
  
Arthur looked straight into Eames eyes, trying to make contact, but Eames was looking everywhere but at Arthur.  
  
‘Come on, come on come on!’ Arthur screamed in his head, ‘Take the fucking shot! I’ll grab his gun take the 3 out behind you and you can take the two right here! Take the shot!’  
  
But Eames refused to look at Arthur, and kept his eyes straight at Mackey.  
  
‘Look at me! Damn it, Eames!’ the younger man screamed internally, but it was fruitless.  
  
  
“Oh come on, Danny boy—” Mackey never got to finish his sentence; Eames skillfully shot him between the eyes. Mackey’s body slumped off, letting Arthur grab a hold of his gun and shot the three dark clothed men behind Eames. Eames gave off two more rounds taking out the men aside from Arthur.  
  
  
The last of the gunshots echoed through the empty pier. Arthur got himself off the floor to strut over to Eames.  
  
“What the hell was that?!”  
  
“What was what, Arthur?” Eames asked tiredly.  
  
“Why wouldn’t you look at me? Why did you hesitate taking that shot?” Arthur questioned, hands still shaking from the adrenaline. Eames looked away and turned his back to Arthur, avoiding the question.  
  
“Hey! Don’t turn your back to me!” Arthur shouted as he strode towards Eames, grabbed his shoulders and turned him, but Eames whipped around and flung his hands and caged Arthur’s face with them. He crushed onto Arthur a searing kiss, as if he was trying to take all the air out of Arthur’s lungs and take it into his. Arthur gripped the forger’s broad shoulders and the hair on the back of Eames’s head, bringing him closer.  
  
They jumbled their breaths together and raveled their tongues against each other. They both smelled like a dirty fishing boat and sea water, but Eames just buried his face on the side of Arthur’s neck, under his chin and inhaled Arthur in.  
  
Eames was shaking, trembling out a broken breath.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here—” Arthur murmured into Eames’s hair, petting him. “I’m here.”  
  
Eames just gripped on tightly to Arthur’s upper arm enough to bruise, and held him closer, tighter, securing Arthur’s lithe body into Eames’ broad chest as if he was trying to press Arthur into where his heart was, trying to physically meld them together…  
  
  
  
  
  
They found a car not too far away, probably Mackey’s. They drove it to the nearest city, which was Sour (Tyre). They found a change of clothes, stole a car and automatically drove off to Beirut, which was a 2-3 day drive. Through the whole drive, Arthur and Eames rarely spoke to each other. Eames let Arthur drive as he sat in the passenger’s seat and looked out the window. They stopped time to time to refill gas or to change and steal a different car. The only times Eames said anything was to ask if Arthur was okay to keep driving or asking to pull over at the next city.  
  
They finally made it to Beirut, but the tension within Eames did not loosen away. In fact Eames was more alert and apprehensive than Arthur had ever seen him. They needed fake passports and new papers. Eames was sitting at the hotel table, forging papers when Arthur asked from the bed where he sat staring at Eames for the last 10 minutes, “Where we headed?”  
  
“LA,” Eames answered promptly, not looking up from the papers.  
  
“No Paris then.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“And I’m going to guess we’re not going to talk about what happened on the pier?”  
  
“. . . No.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur started in a deadbeat tone.  
  
“Not now, Arthur—”  
  
“When then?” Eames paused his writing hand, but he was staring intently at the hard, stocky, government-issued paper. Arthur got up from the bed and walked over to Eames, gently prying the pen out of his tightly gripped hand and proceeded to bring the forger’s hand flat against his chest.  
  
“If you’re having a hard time believing that I’m alive, then you have nothing to worry about. I am here.”  
  
Eames looked at his hand on Arthur’s chest then his gaze traveled to Arthur’s.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur greeted at the familiar navy blues.  
  
“Hello. . . .” Eames replied back softly, then suddenly released a heavy sigh, his shoulders collapsing down as if boulders were lifted from them and then starting to slump off his chair. Arthur quickly kneeled in front of him to catch him in his arms.  
  
“Hey, it’s okay, come on—” Arthur said as he helped Eames out of the chair and onto their bed. They lay on top of the covers, facing each other. The younger man just let Eames press an ear firmly on his chest while stroking Eames’s hair.  
  
  
  
“When—” Eames started, croaking out past his tired, and dry throat. “When he put that gun against your head, I think I just broke down.”  
  
Dense silence filled the room ‘till Arthur slowly replied, “Okay.”  
  
Eames continued, “And I couldn’t let myself look you in the eye . . . somewhere in the back of my mind I was going, ‘What if this is the last time I look at them and all I see is fear? All I see is him pleading at me?’ and I just . . . I just couldn’t, Arthur.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Arthur soothed as he cradled the older man’s head more snug against his chest. “Shh, I’m right here,” Arthur repeated against Eames’s forehead and planted a kiss.  
  
“Then he called my name in such a way I—” Eames then pushed back to look up at Arthur, “I remembered the first time you called me by my name, Arthur, and I was piss poor drunk then, but I couldn’t forget ever . . . the way you said my name, how it made me feel. . . .”  
  
  
“How did it make you feel?” Arthur posed as he coddled Eames’s hair with his fingers, “How did it make you feel?” He questioned again as he shifted over to kiss Eames’s temple, then down to his jaw. “Did it make you feel on fire? Cause I feel it every time you touch me, look at me in the eye and call my name,” Arthur continued, kissing underneath Eames’ chin then another at the curve of where the forger’s head and neck meet. “Did it make you feel safe? Secure?” Arthur continued to ask as he climbed on top of the older man’s strong body leisurely. He caged the British man’s head between his arms as he continued to adore him. “Did it make you feel—”  
  
“At home.” Dark blue eyes stared into Arthur’s dark gaze as he answered, “The way you said my name made me feel at home.”  
  
  
Arthur smiled at the way waves of everything good rolled around in the dark blues of Eames’s eyes and then crashed against him. The way Eames looked so vulnerable and open and candid… he leaned down and brushed his lips against the forger’s.  
  
“Daniel,” Arthur said against Eames’s bottom lip. Eames sighed blissfully, parting his lips to let Arthur in, to let himself taste Arthur. “Daniel,” Arthur repeated again after they broke their kiss for the need of air. He continued to repeat Eames’ name onto the man’s skin as they slowly and idly stripped their cheap clothes and continued to repeat his name like a prayer, a mantra as he filled Eames’ body to give comfort in a language he and Eames had come to write together. . . .  
  
  
  
  
They finally got out of Lebanon. It wasn’t easy, but they managed to get out of the country without raising any flags; but instead of LA, the two of them had decided to go to Mombasa.  
  
The point man felt that something within Eames was . . . not broken but . . . had shifted back in Tel Aviv. There was this constant passive aggressive response to Arthur where Eames seemed to hover around Arthur, never farther away than an arm’s length.  
  
Paranoia seemed to be gripping at Eames, even on the street shops he’d always look back like a man waiting to run at any given time, and never left his gun too far away from his person. A person so looked at them wrong and Eames felt that they had to vacate the vicinity.  
  
By the New Years Arthur couldn’t take it any more.  
  
“You need to stop this.”  
  
“Hm?” Eames asked as he busied himself with cutting his meal, “What do you mean?”  
  
Arthur stared hard at Eames, “You know what I mean. You haven’t let your guard down since we left Lebanon in November. You need to rest. If you feel we’re too compromised in Mombasa we can always go somewhere else, but you need to rest.”  
  
Eames looked up from his plate and gave a crooked smile, “What? I’m well rested! We’ve been just lounging here waiting for things to blow over for the last 5 weeks.”  
  
“Eames, you’ve lost 10 pounds and I know you don’t sleep at night. You’re too busy waking up at every single sound. Tell me in all honesty, do you believe we are compromised here? Do I need to start looking for us to relocate?” Arthur asserted. Eames looked at Arthur for a moment as if in study of Arthur (always studying Arthur, looking at him like an impossible question he can’t answer). Eames then placed his fork and knife down on to the table, leaned back against his chair and sighed. He took his hands and rubbed his face then leaned forward again, close enough so he could speak quietly to Arthur.  
  
  
“I just can’t stop. I can’t turn this off,” Eames explained. “It’s not that I don’t know you are capable of taking care of yourself, but I just can’t trust myself to let you out of my sight. You understand me, right?”  
  
The younger man gazed at Eames, and he could see the sleepless nights starting to take a toll on him: dark rings around his eyes, cheekbones a bit more defined due to weight loss. Arthur did understand. He had almost lost Eames once himself. He knows full-well the feeling of depression and misery and worthlessness beyond words, but Arthur could just see Eames running himself ragged trying to keep Arthur safe at all cost; and if Arthur had learned anything from Prague, he knew that Eames would try to keep Arthur safe even at the cost of his own life.  
  
He knew and understood where Eames was coming from, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.  
  
  
  
Arthur smiled tenderly at Eames, who seemed to find comfort in it.  
  
“You’re a silly man, Mr. Eames,” he told Eames, who smiled brighter and went back to eating his lunch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It wasn’t hard drugging Eames . . . but it was unimaginably hard to leave him.  
  
“This is for the both of us, yeah?” Arthur asked the unconscious man as he brushed the soft hair out of Eames’s eyes.  
  
“You’re going to burn yourself out and probably get yourself killed because somewhere in your silly head you think you’re doing this for both of us. But you’re not,” Arthur’s eyes began to heat as he spoke his goodbyes to the sleeping man in a hushed voice.  
  
“We need to reorganize, Dan—we need to just take a step back and think about what the hell we’re doing . . . we just jumped into this lifestyle, just went on . . . on impulse, and look where it’s gotten us. Just, just take care of yourself, please? And we’ll see each other again when we both have taken a breather and we know what to do,” Arthur said, then quickly placed a kiss on both of Eames’s eyelids and his lips. He shut his eyes tightly, ignoring the tears welling up behind his eyelids, stood up, grabbed his bags and walked out the door; all in one breath.  
  
‘Walk, keep walking. Don’t look back—one foot after the other—keep walking.’  
  
  
  
  
Arthur purchased a small apartment in Pasadena once he arrived back in California, under an alias that Eames knew. The apartment was small, meant only for one person. He only bought the necessities and lived with a week-to-week plan. He had to forge a new resume because the Arthur, who was a gallery curator for The Getty, was probably flagged for suspicion of corporate espionage, and gained a small part-time job at a local library. When not working, Arthur played around with a cheap classic guitar he bought off at a yard sale near his home and read Alexandre Dumas in French. It was a small and timid life and never once was there an hour where Arthur would not wonder how Eames was.  
  
It was the third week of February when Arthur had a knock on his door. Tucking his gun behind him, he opened the door to find a FedEx man with a rather giant box on a dolly.  
  
  
“For Mr. French Daniels?” the young man chewing gum asked.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Here, if you can sign?” Arthur signed as the FedEx guy moved the box to the middle of Arthur’s living room. “Thanks,” he said after grabbing his clipboard and exiting. Arthur closed the door and locked it before turning around and staring at the box sitting in his small living room.  
  
There was no one else other than Eames who could possibly have sent this package—if the return address to Mombasa wasn’t a give away. Arthur knew only Eames could track down Arthur’s alias and address. A part of Arthur felt relieved, but another part of him felt dread. A sense of foreboding ran through him.  
  
He circled the large box, big enough to fit a bedside table to try to see if he could figure out what possibly could be in the box. The warning labels of ‘Fragile’ were plastered all over the box. Arthur stood in his living room, glaring at the container till he sighed and went to the kitchen to grab a knife.  
  
Arthur wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but empty bottles wrapped in bubble wrap definitely wasn’t it. He found all kinds of bottles. Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, Gin, Vodka, even a green absinthe bottle. Arthur took each and every bottle out of its bubble wrapping and set them down around him. Once Arthur reached the bottom of the box he found a familiar envelope he hadn’t seen in a while. Gently Arthur reached for it and opened hesitantly.  
  
Arthur’s stomach dropped as he read:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _“If I’m a silly man, then you are a lying bastard.  
  
You wouldn’t believe how many times I took a gun to my head thinking I was still in a dream.  
The only difference I found, between a dream and reality is that in the dream, you never left me and I didn’t drink alone.  
  
So fuck you, Darling.  
And fuck me because I still love you anyways.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur’s tears had ended up blotching the ink on the card as he gripped the thick stock paper and sobbed without restraint into his hands.  
  
Even though the words were blurred out from the salty droplets, Arthur folded it carefully into his wallet the next day when he woke up in his living room with 38 empty bottles scattered all over the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

### I Miss You Most At Christmas Time

  
Every other season comes along  
And I'm all right  
But then I miss you  
Most at Christmas time  
  
2008  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In May, Arthur gets a phone call, and he’s surprised to find it’s from Cobb.  
Cobb explains to Arthur, “Mal is dead . . . and I need help.”  
  
  
Cobb fills Arthur in on the experiments they had been doing—layering up dreams, and adding sedatives into Somnicin and how Mal jumped from the 21st building but not before signing legal papers stating how she feared for her life.  
  
“I’m on the run, Arthur, but I intend to go home. I need your help; I need you to get me into the business.”  
  
“I haven’t worked a job in over a year and a half, Dom. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”  
  
“But Eames told me you could,” Dom said, snapping Arthur back into the conversation.  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“I said Eames told me you—”  
  
“You’ve spoken to him?” Arthur asked in a frenzy.  
  
“. . . Yes,” Dom answered sounding unsure where the conversation was going.  
  
“Is he still in Mombasa?”  
  
“Um . . . yes, but I spoke to him after I landed in Syria,” Dom stated. “Look, I’m sorry to cut in, Arthur, but I do need your help. I need to get back home . . . back to my kids I—”  
  
Arthur let Dom rant on; he was still digesting the new information on Eames.  
  
‘Still alive, still in Mombasa, still waiting for me. . . .’  
  
  
“—and I didn’t kill Mal—”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur cut in.  
  
“And I. . . . What?”  
  
“Yes, I’ll help you. Where are you?”  
  
  
  
There had to be a reason Eames had sent Dom his way; Arthur didn’t know why but it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose. Dom, apparently, was still in Syria.  
  
“It’s too close to Israel; I can’t go there. Meet me in Beijing in two weeks’ time.”  
  
“I can do that,” Dom said. They said their goodbyes and Arthur quickly began to pack away the small life he had set up for a little less than a year. Within two days, Arthur had managed to pack and store his few belongings into a storage room he had rented two years back when he first left L.A., but before leaving he opened the large box filled with bottles one more time. Taking them out of their wrappings (he’d rewrapped them), he held and stared at each bottle, wondering and imagining what Eames was doing or thinking when he was holding and drinking out of them.  
  
  
  
Once Arthur reached Beijing, he automatically started feeling for jobs so that by the time Dom arrived he was already good to go and ready to train Dom into a life of criminal activity.  
  
  
  
Dom had finally gotten used to the idea of breaking the law by their third job. The two of them were having dinner at their hotel restaurant in Moscow. Arthur kept each job relatively close to each other. China, India, Russia—  
  
“So, are you going to call him?” Dom asked.  
  
“What?” Arthur knew exactly who Dom was referring to, but chose to feign ignorance as he stabbed his salad viciously.  
  
“He’s still in Mombasa. He told me a couple months ago he wasn’t thinking about leaving . . . something about extended vacation or something.”  
  
“Good for him,” Arthur said as he shoved the Romanian leaves into his mouth.  
  
“You could . . . go to him. You know—it is nearing the holidays,” Dom advised, but Arthur kept his mouth shut and kept chewing. Dom stared at him and sighed in defeat, continuing on his own dinner.  
  
  
Arthur wasn’t stupid. Of course he could just ‘call him.’ As soon as Arthur was working again, the first thing he did was look up Eames. He had been itching to call his contacts and do what he did best to keep tabs on Eames, but the whole thing would have defeated the purpose of them separating.  
  
‘More like: of you leaving,’ the voice in the back of his head said.  
  
Arthur told himself that it was necessary to leave Eames at the time. He constantly argued with the voice in the back of his head that the two of them needed a time of separation, to think, to regroup. When the two of them were together their brains jumbled up and priorities got all shot to hell and both of them were so stubborn and so willing to throw each other out of the line of a stray bullet. . . .  
  
“It had to be done,” Arthur tells himself every night before going to bed.  
  
  
The fact that Christmastime was nearing didn’t make things easier for Arthur. The greens and reds, the pictures of Christmas trees and snow—practically everything was screaming at Arthur to just give in and run back to Eames.  
  
  
“I hate Christmas,” Arthur had muttered to himself as he and Dom were walking out onto the main street to catch a cab to France where they had their next job with Cobol Engineering.  
  
Dom heard Arthur and cracked a little smile, “Wow, downright Grinch, aren’t you?” he said making Arthur flinch involuntarily. Dom hadn’t noticed, and if he did he didn’t say anything.  
  
Arthur suddenly had a flash back to all those Christmases ago when Eames came to his loft for the first time and gave Arthur his own PASIV. How they dreamed together but Eames never got to see Arthur’s Christmas tree building.  
  
  
That night once they land in France and settle into their own hotel rooms, Arthur takes out his PASIV and sets the timer to 10 minutes before going under.  
  
It’s his loft from 3 years back. Arthur’s projection of Eames is already spooning Arthur on his old sofa when he wakes up in the dream.  
  
“What took you so long, Arthur dear?” Eames asks as he nuzzles against the back of Arthur’s neck.  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur said turning in Eames’s embrace to face him. His hand cupping one side of the older man’s cheek as he apologized again, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Shh . . . it’s okay. It’s fine—you’re here now; you’re here with me,” Projection Eames said but then from the kitchen there was breaking of glass making Arthur sit up. To Arthur’s surprise another Eames strode out of his kitchen, with a bottle of liquor in-hand. This Eames was flushed with alcohol, his eyes glossy as if he had been crying, hair mussed up and clothes shabby. He faltered into the living room and stared at Arthur, pointing at him with an accusatory finger.  
  
“You left me to die!” the second Eames screamed at him, “YOU LEFT ME TO ROT ALL ALONE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN THE BETTER MAN AND SHOT ME BEFORE YOU LEFT!”  
  
Arthur jerked up, standing up in fear of this new Eames. The drunk Eames glared at him, downed the remainder of the bottle and threw it onto the floor, causing it to shatter.  
  
“Oh, Arthur dear,” drunk Eames spat out, saying ‘Arthur dear’ as if it were some dirty taste in his mouth, “thinking he’s doing the best for both of us. Oh, Arthur dear, doing what’s right. Well look at him now, Arthur dear!” Drunk Eames said pointing behind Arthur to where the first Eames still lay.  
  
Arthur turned around and in horror found the first Eames staring up at him, dead, with a white film over his eyes, pale skin and blue lips.  
  
“You’ve killed him with your cold heart, Arthur dear; you’ve frozen him solid. Look at that!” Drunk Eames continued cruelly. Tears streamed down Arthur’s face as he shook and tried to gasp for air. He clenched a hand over his heart and gripped it hard enough to bruise.  
  
“You’ve killed him Arthur; going to kill me to, are you?” the second Eames kept taunting in the most fiendish way behind him.  
  
“Or maybe I should kill you?”  
  
And before Arthur could register the fact that the projection of drunk Eames was grabbing the end of the broken bottle and stabbing him in the back, he jolted awake with real tears flowing from the corners of his eyes.  
  
After regaining a regular breathing pattern, the point man raided the liquor cabinet in his hotel room. Drinking down the small bottles one by one till his visions were too blurred and memories of the dream were distant.  
  
Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, rocking from side to side then suddenly grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers he had memorized and punched in numerous times but never had strength to press send.  
  
The dial tone rang about 4 times before a deep, familiar, whiskey-laced voice asked, “Hello?”  
  
“Tell me I didn’t kill you with my cold heart,” Arthur said. He more likely slurred the words but the question still stood. “Tell me that—I didn’t take my cold, cold bastard heart and freeze you to death, Daniel. Please?” Arthur pleaded as he shook and fell into a cry.  
  
Eames had yet to reply back but Arthur knew he was still on the other line.  
Arthur continued to sob out broken sentences of how he had destroyed everything and how he’s so confused and how much he missed Eames.  
  
“F- fuck, Dan . . . I- I don’t know any more. Did I do the right thing? Leaving? I don’t know any more. I just miss you and I just want to come home to you and I just . . . and I got s- s- s- so scared when I read your card last year and I just. . . .”  
  
It was pathetic and probably completely stupefying, but a second later Eames spoke out, “You did the right thing,” the British man’s deep soothing voice carrying on in Arthur’s ears. “You did the right thing. Shhh, stop crying now, it’s okay. You didn’t kill me, Arthur. I’m still hurt and angry, but you didn’t kill me, darling—it’s okay. . . . Shhh, lay down now—I know you’re in bed.”  
  
Arthur held onto the phone as he lay on his side on his bed and continued to cry over the phone. Eames continued to sooth Arthur softly, calling him pet names Arthur rarely let Eames indulge in.  
  
  
He was drifting off the sleep when he heard Eames say in a sad humorous way, “Funny thing . . . I was just thinking that I miss you most, during the holidays.”  
  
Arthur replied softly, “. . . Me too . . . except. . . .”  
  
“Except what, Arthur dear?” Eames asked using one of his favorite pet names, but not like the angry projection in Arthur’s dream. No, this was dulcet and warm and just so filling.  
  
  
Arthur smiled and continued, “Except . . . every day is Christmas now. . . .”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### Winter Wonderland

  
He'll say: Are you married?   
We'll say: No man,  But you can do the job   
When you're in town  
  
2009  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
To say that it was a ‘busy’ year for Arthur would be a big understatement. The extraction job originally planned for a designer in Proclus Global to find out the information that Cobol needed resided only with the CEO himself, and with that a chain reaction started.  
  
Extraction on Saito.  
Extraction failed.  
Hired by Saito.  
Do inception on Fisher.  
Inception complete, Dom goes home.  
  
  
Within that chain of events, Arthur had come across several new findings.  
  
Number one, Inception is possible and the idea was not only thrilling but also frightening. Number two, Eames had gained weight. Not in a bad way but just a bit meatier and much fuller and healthier than when Arthur had seen him last. Certain things, though, hadn’t changed with Eames. He was still brilliant and artful, from planning a heist to the masterful stroke of executing it.  
  
There were times on the job when it was awkward for both of them. Neither of them knew exactly how far to push their boundaries, how far they could tease each other or flirt, but it didn’t matter much. Both of them were swamped and overtaken by the amount of preparation for the inception.  
  
  
  
Arthur finished picking up his luggage, set it on his trolley, and watched Eames, who was watching Dom leave with Miles.  
  
  
  
“Where you headed?” Arthur asked quietly as he stepped next to Eames. Eames looked over at Arthur then back to his hands where he was examining his nails with a toothpick in his mouth.  
  
“Not sure yet. Thought about just resting up for a couple days and maybe . . . I don’t know, head back home,” Eames answered.  
  
“Home?” Arthur asked, raising a brow, truly confused. “London?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames said, looking up and smiling, “Had to call in a favor—a distant uncle of mine to, you know. . . .”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur said, slightly disappointed. It wasn’t that Arthur was expecting anything, like him and Eames running towards each other with the theme from ‘The Summer Place’ playing the background as they slow-mo to a dramatic hug, but disappointment was all that Arthur could really use to describe what he was feeling. He was happy that Eames could go home. He knew that the forger had been wanting to go back to London for some time.  
  
  
“Maybe we can have dinner before you leave?” Arthur asked.  
  
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Eames replied back. The two of them stared at each other, both with awkward smiles on their faces. This was actually the first time the two of them had a moment alone since their reunion. Everything was on a strict plan, plotting and practicing and building, so that neither of them had any time to really sit down and talk.  
  
“Look . . . Dan,” Arthur started but was cut off by Ariadne who pushed her trolley next to them, smiled and asked, “So we’re going out to get smashed right? Job well done?”  
  
Eames smiled at Ariadne, probably thinking the same thing as Arthur, thinking ‘She’s so young. So new. . . .’  
  
“We usually don’t celebrate after every job, Ari,” Eames said. “Usually all the members of the group ignore each other and go separate ways as soon as their paid. Safer that way.”  
  
“Oh . . .”Ariadne said, looked contemplative for a bit, then shoot back up, “but this was no ordinary job. I think we can celebrate at a discreet location.”  
  
Eames chuckled, and Arthur smiled kindly at her.  
  
“Ah, well I think I’ll skip this one,” Arthur apologized. Ariadne gave him a look but he just smiled wryly.  
  
“Well then, I guess I have to attend now since, Arthur isn’t joining. Would be dull, I think, if it was just you and Yusef, now wouldn’t it?” Eames said, surprising Arthur.  
  
“Great! I’ll text you the place!” she said as she took off. Arthur gaped slightly at Eames, who turned to look back at him.  
  
“Might as well indulge her, Arthur—” Eames said nonchalantly.  
  
“Um . . . yeah.”  
  
“But you were saying something?”  
  
Arthur had almost forgotten, but the moment was lost now and there was nothing he could think of to say to Eames anymore.  
  
“I um . . . just wanted to say that you know where I am so . . . yeah,” he finished lamely. Eames smiled brightly at Arthur and said,  
  
“I always know where you are, Arthur.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Three months passed and December came back to haunt Arthur. He now lived in a loft in Silverlake. It wasn’t the best of places he could have picked to settle; the neighborhood that was filled with college students, hippies and hipsters, but the built-in selves all along one whole side of the wall had attracted Arthur’s attention. The spotted elephant Eames had gifted him for their first Christmas sat on one of the mid shelves next to the stock cards Arthur had framed. A whole other section was filled with the empty bottles Eames had sent him from Mombasa, though the tear-soaked card that came with that package was still placed behind Arthur’s driving license. Other parts of the shelves were filled with books and poorly made pottery he had made from a ceramics class he was currently taking.  
  
There was one cup though, on a self all on its own as if it was a prized trophy. It was one of the best ones Arthur had made in class and for several weeks he contemplated if he should mail it to Eames, who had texted him two weeks after the Fisher job to say that he was now back in England under his given name and living in the house left to him by his mother.  
  
  
Arthur didn’t mail the poorly made cup, however; but time to time he would look at the porcelain cup with its poorly painted blue patterns and think that Eames would probably have a good laugh at it, if he received it in the mail.  
  
The whole point of Arthur deciding to take a ceramics class was because he felt he had lost his passion in dream-sharing. It’s not that dream-sharing was boring now that Arthur had achieved the God-like impossibility, but rather that the art and marvel of it had somehow become lost to him throughout the jobs he had taken with Dom. Not that is was all Dom’s fault, of course—but Dom’s projection of Mal and the dream he had dreamt with the two projections of Eames just made it hard to forget the dark sides of dream-sharing. It’s the price for a stable reality.  
  
  
So Arthur decided to take up something where he could build something with his own hands, no matter how poor the results were. He knew he would be terrible at it—it was no surprise to him when the first thing he made (a vase) came out to look more like a play-do creation made by a four-year-old. His teacher, a lovely middle-aged Asian lady, had patted his shoulder in sympathy but Arthur had a feeling she had only covered her face because she was trying so very hard not to laugh at him.  
  
  
Arthur also picked up a cooking class, where the class was filled with mostly soccer moms and one or two female college students. They all fawned over Arthur, some even shamelessly flirted with him, leaving Arthur to awkwardly explain he was in somewhat of a relationship with someone else, then wondering if he was still in a relationship with Eames.  
  
  
The first email came on the first week of December.  
  
  
To: A.Lowey@gmail.com  
From: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com  
  
Subject: ignore my given last name, Arthur.  
  
  
Yes. You probably always knew my full name. Ignore it.  
  
Just thought I’d write you a line…  
Still in London, living in this giant house my mother had left me with. Can’t say I’m not bored, but I don’t think I’ll ever get back into dream-sharing or conning people again, Arthur.  
  
A bit tired.  
  
I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but I know you have not made plans to take any other jobs.  
  
I’m sorry that you can’t use your given name anymore—but I found that his email address was still active so I decided to say hello.  
  
Hope you are well, Arthur.  
  
  
-Daniel.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur had quickly responded back after reading.  
  
To: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com  
From: A. Lowey  
  
Subject: I’ve always ignored your given last name. It’s atrocious.  
  
  
  
I think the magic of dream-sharing is lost to me now, not because it’s not brilliant but just . . . it gets tiring.  
  
Reality and dreaming, there’s no difference. People are supposed to dream to escape reality, yet we’ve made it our lives.  
  
I haven’t been thinking about taking any jobs. I can relate when you say you’re tired.  
I’m tired as well.  
  
But you’ll find that I’ve been keeping myself busy. You’d be proud, or find a tremendous amount of amusement over it.  
  
I hope you’re taking care of yourself too. . . .  
  
  
Arthur.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur pressed send and then quickly closed his laptop and slumped into his wiggly chair. After a couple of moments, he decided to go out to grab lunch. There was a café within walking distance of his loft that had exceptional coffee, and Arthur had come to deal with the hipsters who infested the shop.  
  
  
Arthur ordered a sandwich and drank his coffee while he waited and people watched, ‘till his blackberry gave out a buzz. Arthur fished out his phone from his pocket and viewed the display to find out he had received an email. He opened it:  
  
  
To: A.Lowey@gmail.com  
From: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com  
  
Subject: bless you for ignoring it all these years then, love.  
  
  
What HAVE you been doing, Arthur?  
Finally settling to make those plans to conquer the world?  
  
I, too, have been keeping myself busy. I’ve been thinking about selling the house, though; a bit too big for just one. A bit too ostentatious as well. . . .  
  
I’ve been painting. A lot. Thought about sending you one but I didn’t know if I should. . . .  
  
Dreaming . . . I find has become the reason for our lives to complicate themselves. I find that I am no longer the best of the generation . . . mostly because there is a new generation below us. Ariadne, I have to say, is a brilliant architect. If she plans to stay in the game, I am certain she will do well—just a matter of finding the right extractor to follow.  
  
I’ve been doing a lot of traveling around the UK. Recently I took a road trip from London to Glasgow, just for the hell of it. It was very green, and wet and very slow, but I enjoyed it.  
  
  
London seemed to have changed its pace while I was gone; still enjoying being home, though. I visit my mother every week, the only problem with that, though, is that the old man is there as well. Can’t be helped, I guess.  
  
Tell me, Arthur, do you still play guitar?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur’s sandwich came out by the time he finished reading his email, but he ignored his food and automatically responded back.  
  
  
To: D.E.Strathclyde@gmail.com  
From: A.Lowey@gmail.com < via blackberry>  
  
Subject: Re: bless you for ignoring it all these years then, love.  
  
  
  
I’m not going to take over the world; and yes, I still do play the guitar. I still play the one you got me . . . which I never asked—how did you know that was the exact same model that I broke?  
  
I’ve been keeping busy by doing other things.  
I’m taking a cooking class, and I’ll have you know I can make a decent meal.  
  
I’ve also been taking a ceramics class. I’m horrible at it, but you already knew I’m horrible with things like that.  
  
I . . . actually made a cup. Debated with myself, thinking maybe I could send it to you, but obviously I haven’t.  
  
  
  
Arthur paused from writing, bit his lips and wondered if it was okay to ask the next query. Arthur huffed a frustrated sigh and continued to write.  
  
Eames . . . do you think we are ever going to be like we were before?  
  
  
And before Arthur could change his mind he sent the message. No longer hungry Arthur asked for the meal to be packed and ordered another coffee to take home.  
  
There were no more emails from Eames for the rest of the day, and Arthur had told himself that Eames had probably gone to bed, time zones and such. Two days later Arthur received a knock on his door. A postman stood at his door with a priority express mail package with the return address to London.  
  
Arthur couldn’t sign and grab the package quickly enough. He had practically slammed the door on the poor mailman’s face. Arthur tore the box open and found a standard sized 16x12 canvas. Arthur gently took the canvas out of the box by its wooden frame and withdrew it to reveal a serene painting of a lake in a hazy and warm sunset.  
  
Arthur lightly treaded his fingers over the uneven paint, following Eames’s brushstrokes.  
  
Arthur looked in the box in search of a card, but found none, so he flipped the painting over to find at the right bottom corner a message left for him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Lake Loch Ness. I was hoping that I’d catch a glimpse of Nessy, but during the four hours of sitting at the top of the hill painting this, it began to dawn on me that maybe the whole Loch Ness monster business was a tourist trap.  
  
Perhaps we can go there in search of Nessy together.  
  
And to answer your question: No. I don’t think we can ever be like we were. . . .  
  
Because I believe we can do better than that. _  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next day Arthur packs his defectively-made cup, and if he overdoes the bubble wrap it’s because he doesn’t trust the American postal system. Arthur doesn’t write “Thank you for the beautiful painting” or “Yes, let’s try again.”  
  
Instead he draws (or tries to draw) a sad stick figure man sitting in front of a pottery wheel with the words “Don’t laugh” under it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### What Are You Doing, New Years Eve?

  
When the bells all ring and the horns all blow  
And the couples we know are fondly kissing.  
Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?  
  
2010  
  
  
  
  
  
In L.A., Christmastime officially starts when the local radio station, KOST 103.5, starts to play continuous holiday music—and it seemed that wherever Arthur went, they had set their radio to that station. Arthur didn’t mind it too much. The usual “Santa Baby” and “Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer” didn’t annoy him as much as the overplayed “Jingle Bell Rock” or the “Last Christmas.”  
  
What did hit a nerve was all the people calling in to the radio, dedicating a song to their sweethearts and their loved ones.  
  
  
“L.A., it seems, has been overrun by cliché Christmas carols. Debating if I should leave town for a while till this Christmas nonsense has blown over or just chop my ears off. . . .” Arthur typed.  
  
Since the first week of December last year, Arthur and Eames had emailed each other daily. Mostly they talked about what they were doing, and candidly asking questions about the time they were apart. The thick blanket of awkwardness seemed to just melt away between them.  
  
This email was a reply back to was Eames’s email with the subject line: “I’ve decided that the cup you’ve sent me I will only use for coffee.” Within the email it explained that the cup was not worthy to contain the proud brew of proper British tea.  
  
“I received about a dozen invitations from the soccer moms and to a couple college parties from my classmates in cooking and ceramics classes. Speaking of which, my ceramics teacher believes I’m making progress. Maybe I can make a cup ‘worthy’ of proper British tea . . . maybe. Don’t get your hopes up.”  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning Arthur was awakened by his blackberry giving off a cheerful chirp indicating that there was an incoming call. Arthur blindly grabbed at his phone and pressed it against his ear.  
  
“Hel. . .o?”  
  
“Sleeping in, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur jolted awake, sitting up on his bed  
  
“Eames!”  
  
“Arthur!” Eames greeted back with a laugh, “Yes. Lovely to hear you, too.”  
  
“I. . . .” Arthur started but was cut off by amused Eames.  
  
“I was just calling to see if you were doing anything for New Years. Afraid we can’t do Christmas together; it’s impossible to find a flight out to anywhere at this point, but I thought leaving town for a holiday would be cleaner and so much more painless than cutting your ears off,” Eames said.  
  
“I um. . . .” Arthur coughed and continued, “I’m not doing anything for New Years.”  
  
“Wonderful! Pick a place, Arthur dear. I’ll meet you there.”  
  
“How about . . . Vienna?” Arthur posed.  
  
“Vienna! We haven’t been there together, have we?” Eames asked.  
  
“No . . . thought it’d be nice. Something new,” Arthur supplied. The younger man heard the older man smile over the phone.  
  
“Something new for the New Year; sounds good to me, Arthur.”  
  
“Yeah. . . .” Arthur replied back a bit dreamily like then cleared his throat and recovered his normal voice to repeat: “Yeah. Yes. Something new, new year. Good. Great.”  
  
Eames didn’t laugh at him, but mirth was clearly in his voice when he told Arthur that he’d send the plane ticket information in his email. After getting off the phone, Arthur groaned and covered his eyes with the heel of his palm, flopping back into his pillows.  
  
“Why do I act so awkward?!” Arthur vented out to himself, then rubbed his face and looked back at his phone.  
  
If Arthur smiled stupidly for the rest of the day, it was only because he woke up on the right side of the bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur arrived in Vienna on the 30th of December, 4 PM colloquial time. There was a car sent out for him at the airport to bring him to Hotel Imperial. Arthur marveled at the architecture of the hotel lobby as he was directed to the Imperial Suite on the 3rd floor. Once Arthur arrived in front of the door, he knocked once and waited for the door to open.  
  
Eames opened the door and leaned against the entrance; Arthur’s throat rose up, making him choke on his tongue, as Eames gave him a mind-blowing smile.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames offered with soft eyes, looking at Arthur from head to toe. “Always looking lovely.”  
  
Arthur cleared his throat and said, “Eames. You um . . . too.” He blushed at his awkwardness. Eames just stood their smiling as if he knew some secret Arthur wasn’t in on, and it was unnerving.  
  
“Can I come in?”  
  
“Of course!” Eames said stepping aside, “Here let me get this for you.” He grabbed Arthur’s suitcase for him, brushing his hand in the process.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Arthur stepped into the suite to find himself in a very lavishly furnished room. Arthur had been in a lot of hotels in his lifetime—from rundown shack-like rooms to four star hotels—but this suite was by far the most ostentatious and exquisite he had ever been in.  
  
It was decorated in a gold and dark evergreen color scheme, and from the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier. Turkish sofas and Italian stools furnished the salon floor, and there were golden lamps and indoor palms in every corner.  
  
“Wow, this is. . . .”  
  
“Too much?” Eames asked as he closed the door behind Arthur.  
  
“No, I was going to say really nice. The building itself is actually something I wrote a paper on, way back in college—” Arthur supplied as he took off his coat flaked with snow.  
  
“Did you, now?” Eames asked as he took Arthur’s coat from behind. Arthur turned around to face Eames, finding that he and Eames were very close to each other. Arthur, for a moment, stared at Eames’s dark gray-blue eyes, falling into a familiar sensation of contentment then dropped his gaze to the older man’s red ample lips.  
  
  
“See something you like, Arthur dear?” Eames asked, clearly exaggerating his name. Arthur looked up and narrowed his eyes at the older man, which prompted a rueful smile from Eames.  
  
“Something about the building, you were saying?” Eames said as he stepped back, took Arthur’s coat, and walked over to a coat rack to hang it.  
  
Arthur took a step back before continuing passionately about the art and history of the building: “The building has a lot of history in it. Mozart lived here once; Strauss, Beethoven, and Schubert as well. And the architecture is a great example of the neo-classical era, and. . . .” Arthur looked over at Eames and found him leaning against the mantle, looking at him fondly.  
  
“. . . And you already knew that. Of course you knew that,” Arthur said as he sat in a Turkish armchair in front of the fireplace.  
  
“But you explain it so much better than my teachers did back in school. Much more interesting,” he said. Then he asked, “Hungry?”  
  
“No, just tired. The flight was a bit rough,” Arthur explained as he leaned back comfortably in his chair and loosened his tie.  
  
“Out on a vacation and you’re wearing a three-piece suit,” Eames said as he noted Arthur’s apparel. Arthur just gives a tired smile and a hum. Eames wore a pair of dark khaki pants and dark brown loafers. He also wore a burgundy button down shirt (where the first 2 buttons were opened), which he had tucked neatly into his slacks. He looked comfortable, as if he was in his own skin, relaxed and without worries. Even the air around him seemed to be calm and tranquil, and Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at how well it seemed to suit Eames.  
  
“You look nice,” Arthur thought out loud.  
  
“Thank you, Arthur,” Eames received gently.  
  
“You look relaxed,” Arthur offered again.  
  
“I am relaxed. I think for the first time in a long time; I’ve never been more relaxed as in the last couple months,” Eames explained.  
  
“Oh? What changed?”  
  
“I think I just realized that I was content and happy with myself. Then I realized that I wasn’t sleeping with a gun every night and I still got a decent night’s sleep, and I think somewhere along the way I understood why you left,” Eames said, giving Arthur an encouraging smile. Arthur tried to return a smile but failed due to the memory of him leaving Eames alone in Mombasa that night.  
  
“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry,” Eames apologized as soon as he noticed Arthur’s change of expression. He quickly strode to Arthur and knelt in front of him, taking Arthur’s slender hands into his big, callused ones.  
  
“We wrote about this, yes? You told me why. You explained how you thought I was making myself physically sick with worry, and I agreed, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. . . .” Arthur agreed weakly, staring at his hand in Eames’s.  
  
“Hey,” Eames called out. “Look at me.”  
  
Arthur slowly raised his gaze to meet the forger’s.  
  
“We’re okay. We’re going to be fine. You did the right thing; it hurt but you did the right thing by leaving. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have let you go anywhere without me. We needed this. Time to really wrap our heads around the idea,” Eames said, tilting his head with a warm smile.  
  
“Time too wrap our heads around what idea?” Arthur asked softly.  
  
“Time to wrap our heads around the idea that we found someone in our lives that we can consider ‘our true love,’” Eames sponsored with a tongue in cheek, but the sharpness in Eames’s navy blue eyes told Arthur that he wasn’t joking around.  
  
  
Eames and Arthur ordered room service instead of going out to eat. Arthur was tired from travel and the time difference; he was nearly falling asleep in his chair.  
  
He let Eames order in fluent German and the two of them spoke for an hour just in German for the hell of it.  
  
“I can hear your Hebrew in your German,” Eames commented after he sipped his red wine and comfortably sank into his cushiony armchair.  
  
“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, happily buzzed and relaxed, sitting slouched on his own armchair.  
  
“Just the way you roll certain words—I can hear a faint accent from it.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Arthur hummed into his own glass before finishing his drink. He continued, “I know what you’re saying. Yes. I don’t mean to . . . my tongue just does it on its own.”  
  
“Probably because Hebrew is your first language,” Eames offered.  
  
“Probably,” then Arthur laughed. “You remember when we first met, and you pointed out how ‘hard’ I was trying to erase the poor financial upbringings that I had?”  
  
“Now, Arthur dear, there are only so many times I can apologize for that,” Eames said, sitting up and placing his glass on the table between them. Arthur waved his hand dismissing it.  
  
“No, no, I was going to say that you were right. During college, I tried so hard to not give away the fact I came from a poor Jewish family back in New York. When I got to UCLA on a full ride, the first thing I did was try to speak like everyone else, try to be interested in things everyone else liked. I just tried to hard. I don’t know, but somewhere along the way it just became who I am. I lost focus on what I liked.”  
  
“Then what do you like, Arthur?” Eames asked as he leaned back in his chair and propped his head on his index and middle finger.  
  
“I found out that I actually hate dressing up. I don’t like parties and I don’t like champagne, ‘cause it makes this weird feeling in the back of my throat.” Eames laughed openly at Arthur’s confession.  
  
“I also found out that I really hated my old job. The one at The Getty, being an art critic; getting paid to be pretensions and pompous, then having to pretending that you’re as lofty and posh as the old people you work for. I found out I also hate Beijing in the summer, and I hate all chocolate but white.”  
  
Eames smiled lazily as he listened to Arthur’s confession. Arthur then sat up a bit straighter and looked intently over at the older man.  
  
“Then about three years back I realized that I really hated Christmas.”  
  
Arthur kept staring at Eames, whose smile had died down a little, and then continued, “I never really enjoyed Christmas or anything. You were right, I grew up poor. Didn’t celebrate the Jewish holidays, either—my family couldn’t be picky enough to keep kosher. Basically my parents were too busy trying to just survive to instill tradition or anything like that in my life. They weren’t horrible parents, just busy. They died when I was fairly young—and I don’t mind. I don’t think they would be very proud to find their only child criminal and well, gay.” Arthur glossed.  
  
“Then one year you just appeared in my life, infuriated the hell out of me, and then just left. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about you after our first job. I researched you, dug your whole life up. At the time I told myself that it was just me being anal and thorough and making sure I wouldn’t work with a jackass like you.”  
  
Eames gave Arthur a wry smile.  
  
“But I think we both know that wasn’t true, was it?”  
  
“No. Well at least I’d like to think not,” Eames provided softly. Arthur smiled and continued:  
  
“Started off with a stupid stuffed animal, then it just . . . you took a day that was like any other day of the year for me and made it into something I looked forward to every year, and then you made every day like Christmas. Those two years we spent together, Daniel, every single fucking day was like Christmas,” Arthur whispered. A familiar ache throbbed in Arthur’s chest as his eyes began to heat up.  
  
“Those three years without you, it was like I was—”  
  
“Dying,” Eames and Arthur said at the same time.  
  
The two men stared at each other, slowly breaking into a small timid smile full of apologies to each other. Arthur stood up from his chair slowly and stepped in front of Eames. Arthur reached out for Eames’s face with uncertainty and shaky hands. Eames took the younger man’s hand in his and placed Arthur’s palm onto his face, his thumbs brushing back and forth adoringly across Arthur’s knuckles.  
  
  
“Can we start again? Can we have Christmas every day again?” Arthur asked hushed, his eyes holding back heavy tears.  
  
“God, darling, yes. Yes, please,” Eames breathed out as he pulled Arthur down and craned his neck up to meet Arthur’s lips.  
  
It had been nearly four years since they last shared a kiss, but Arthur still felt so superbly well-fitted with each curve of Eames. Like a puzzle piece, Arthur slide right into place. Arthur closed his eyes, drowning himself in what he could only express as a flood of euphoria. The heavy tears finally let go of Arthur’s dark lashes and rolled down his cheeks, only for Eames to gather them away with his thumbs. Arthur climbed onto Eames’s lap, took his arms and rested them on the shoulders he felt so many years ago were made just for him, placing his arms around Eames as they kissed and made love.  
  
Now Arthur knows that Eames’s shoulders were made just so that Arthur could rest his arms around him as they kissed.  
  
Arthur doesn’t know how long they had been kissing, but both of them broke apart for air and stared at each other’s teary faces and laughed at how ridiculous they looked. Eames took one of his big hands and caressed the side of Arthur’s face and stared at him as if he was a marvel.  
  
“Ughhoof,” Eames breathed out a half groan and a half sigh. Arthur followed by releasing a similar sounding breath of air in his chest. Then the two giggled like teenagers. Arthur leaned over and bumped his forehead against the older man’s as he pressed their tangled hands over his heart.  
  
“What are you doing for New Year’s eve, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked.  
  
“I’m not quiet sure, Arthur dear. . . . But whatever I’m doing, I know I’ll be having a grand time.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


### I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm

  
What do I care how much it may storm?  
I've got my love to keep me warm  
  
2011  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur heard Eames coming in through the door and giving out a dramatic “burr!” as he closed the door behind him.  
  
“Cold out?” Arthur asked from the kitchen, washing away the last of their dinner.  
  
“Yes. I can’t believe you made me go out in the sodding rain to get you your damned bloody orange wine,” Eames called out from the foyer.  
  
“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy orange wine as much as I do. Besides, the wine cellar is across the yard; hardly trekking through a blizzard, is it?” Arthur said as he grabbed two wine glasses and a cork opener and headed towards the living room. Eames had already settled on the floor in the living room, by the lit fireplace.  
  
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t cold,” Eames said sulkily. Arthur smiled exasperatedly as he made his way over to Eames and straddled his lap comfortably. Eames settled the bottle he was studying onto the floor next to him and grinned up at Arthur as he wrapped his arms around Arthur’s svelte waist.  
  
“I’ll make it up to you,” Arthur said, smiling down into a kiss.  
  
“Hmmm, I bet you will,” Eames replied back, also smiling into their kiss.  
  
  
  
Since Vienna, Arthur and Eames had decided to take things slowly, no more impulsive behavior and no more blaming each other for the times they were both hurting over—just taking it one step at a time. By mid-June, Eames had finally sold his parents’ house and moved to L.A., buying a rather moderate house in La Canada. Arthur had moved into Eames’s house on the second week of December and the two of them had finished unpacking and organizing Arthur’s things in time for Christmas.  
  
  
Eames took the glass and cork opener out of Arthur’s hand and dismissed them near the now neglected bottle of wine.  
  
“We need to have sex in every room of the house now,” Eames said as he buried his face into Arthur’s nape.  
  
“We already have,” Arthur groaned out as Eames nipped his neck.  
  
“It’s different now,” Eames said as he placed a kiss between each word. “You are now officially moved in. We need to christen the house properly.”  
Eames then held Arthur and tumbled him onto his back, Eames above him, bracing him with his whole body.  
  
“We could do that . . . but you said you were cold or something? Maybe you should go soak in a hot bath first?” Arthur said impishly as he started unbuttoning Eames’ shirt.  
  
“We wouldn’t want you to be all cold, um . . . on the floor naked, would we?”  
  
Eames growled as he bit into Arthur’s neck, making him yelp and laugh. He reached out for Eames’s face and then brought him up to his lips where they shared an open-mouthed kiss.  
  
“I think I’ll be just fine, Arthur, though your concern is much appreciated; I’ve got your love to keep me warm.”

**Author's Note:**

> REAL THINGS in the work of FICTION
> 
> The watch Eames got Arthur: watch
> 
> Madonna in Sorrow:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Madonna_in_Sorrow.jpg
> 
> Guitar:  
> http://www.martinguitar.com/guitars/choosing/guitars.php?p=s&g=5&m=D-15
> 
> Things I got inspired by:
> 
> Let it Snow café scene where Eames takes Arthur’s hands:  
> http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lbfq841pch1qe6deko1_250.gif
> 
> the poorly described sex scene in Paris: (NOT WORK SAFE!)  
> http://tatarnikova.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d33x9ke
> 
>  
> 
> painting that Eames drew of Lake Loch Ness  
> http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jx78YcF-F8U/THO-e-Kj8FI/AAAAAAAAC5g/bMVdrc7fKKI/s1600/loch-ness01.jpg
> 
>  
> 
> Hotel Imperial, Vienna:  
> http://www.starwoodhotels.com/luxury/property/overview/index.html?propertyID=97
> 
> the rooms:  
> http://i286.photobucket.com/albums/ll93/snowinginjune/Screenshot2010-12-30at64351PM.png
> 
> http://i286.photobucket.com/albums/ll93/snowinginjune/Screenshot2010-12-30at64527PM.png
> 
>  
> 
> orange wine: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orange_wine  
> a wine that has quiet a tedious process in the making of- but it really does have a beautiful color and tastes very sweet.


End file.
